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https://archive.org/details/storyofslaverealOOunse 


A realistic  revelation  of  a social  relation  of  slave  timer  * 
hitherto  unwritten— from  the  pen  of  one  who 
has  fell  both  the  lash  and  the  caress 
oj  c mistress  . 


Fubusheb  for  thh  Tsm 


\ 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

Preface S 

I.  Your  Master  Wants  a House-Boy 11 

II.  A House-Boy’s  Temptation 19 

III.  The  Young  Mistress  Returns 3$ 

IY.  An  Unexpected  Command 43 

V.  The  Lash  of  the  Mistress 52 

VI.  The  Accident  66 

VII.  Awakening  Sensibilities  77 

VIII.  A Sympathetic  Auditor 87 

IX.  The  Moth  Lingers 98 

X.  Sunshine  and  Shadow 112 

XI.  The  Aftermath  of  Anguish 121 

XII.  Welcome  Visitors  130 

XIII.  Love  Reigns  Supreme 140 

XIV.  Disquieting  Fears  159 

XV.  The  Bitterness  of  Death 161 

XVI.  “Is  a Woman’s  Heart  a Sponge?” 171 

XVII.  The  Chastening  Rod 181 

Retrospection  . 191 


3 


Love  scorns  degrees ; the  low  he  lifteth  high, 

The  high  he  draweth  down  to  that  fair  plane 
Whereon,  in  his  divine  equality, 

Two  loving  hearts  may  meet,  nor  meet  in  vain. 

— Paul  Hamilton  Hayes. 


PREFACE 


Had  it  been  possible  in  the  discussion  of  the  Negro 
Question  in  the  ante-bellum  days  as  well  as  since  to 
have  removed  its  agitation  from  the  political  arena  into 
the  more  penetrating  light  of  the  Forum  of  Reason,  in 
which  the  vital  questions  of  civilization  alone  find  just 
and  final  settlement,  what  bloodshed  might  have  been 
averted  and  what  acrimony  and  sectional  hatred  might 
never  have  been  aroused  to  disturb  the  peace,  the  pros- 
perity and  tranquillity  of  our  country?  We  are  told 
that  the  Civil  War  was  inevitable.  Yet  in  this  hour 
of  dispassionate  philosophy,  it  is  clear  to  the  unbiased 
student  of  Sociology  that  had  the  Negro  Question — the 
institution  of  slavery — been  more  fully  understood  in 
its  social  as  well  as  political  bearing,  the  settlement  of 
the  question— one  infinitely  more  just  to  all  concerned 
and  promotive  of  an  infinitely  higher  political  and  so- 
cial status,  might  have  resulted  from  a peaceful  aban- 
donment of  an  institution  wholly  foreign  to  the  Ameri- 
can atmosphere  and  equally  inimical  to  American  prog- 
ress— social  and  industrial.  But  it  was  not  understood, 
and  in  failing  to  have  been,  lay  the  gravest  conse- 
quences to  the  peace  of  the  Nation. 

It  is  but  just,  however,  that  many  of  the  distorted 
and  in  many  instances  wholly  inaccurate  and  perverted 
views  of  slave  life— painted  in  the  moments  of  heated 
and  acrimonious  partisan  debate — be  corrected  or  whol- 
ly obliterated.  To  accomplish  this,  it  is  necessary  to 
lift  the  dust-laden  veil  which  has  obscured  the  truer 
pictures,  and  thereby  give  the  reader  who  would  look 
upon  a faithful  portrayal,  a glimpse  into  a social  condi- 
tion possible  only  in  the  Old  South  under  slavery, 

5 


6 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


of  which  comparatively  little  has  been  told  and  less 
has  been  written. 

We  say  glimpse,  because  in  the  narrative  which  fol- 
lows the  autobiographer  confines  himself  to  a faithful 
accounting  of  the  events  which  marked  his  own  life  in 
bondage,  analyzing  the  problems  which  slavery  pre- 
sented, only  in  their  relevancy  to  his  own  condition. 
Much  that  is  not  said,  and  more  which  cannot  be  writ- 
ten, is  plainly  to  be  read  between  the  lines. 

As  a penetralia  of  the  old  Southern  home,  it  dis- 
closes to  profane  eyes  the  anomalous  relation  which 
the  slave  held  in  the  household — a relation  which  hard- 
ly justifies  retaining  some  of  the  pictures  which  have 
been  burned  into  the  imaginations  of  the  people  and 
the  very  pages  of  history  by  the  inflamed  partisan  and 
misinformed  philanthropist — pictures  which  invoked 
such  righteous  indignation  for  the  “ horrors  ” of  the 
institution  of  slavery.  Had  the  truer  picture  been 
taken  at  the  time — the  abolition  of  the  system  would 
have  been  demanded  no  less  speedily — but  its  aban- 
donment might  have  been  accomplished  at  infinitely 
less  cost  to  the  Nation,  the  people  of  the  South,  and 
to  the  Negro  himself.* 

But  every  transgression  of  nature ’s  laws  carries  with 
it  a swift  and  sure  punishment,  and  who  after  com- 
prehending the  paradoxical  position  in  wThich  the  mas- 
ter placed  his  bondman,  but  will  regard  the  price  paid 
by  the  former  as  in  the  very  nature  of  retributive  jus- 
tice. What  excuse  can  be  offered  for  such  a blind  dis- 
regard of  the  very  strongest  law  of  nature? 

That  the  slaveholder  regarded  the  Negro  as  a human 

*It  is  not  the  purpose  of  the  prefacer  to  show  wherein 
Emancipation  failed  to  solve  the  Negro  Question — save  so  far 
as  any  other  party  or  political  expedient  could  have  done — 
suffice  it  to  point  out  the  indisputable  fact  that  the  Negro 
Question  confronts  us  today  and  particularly  the  people  of  the 
South  with  mein  grave  and  portentous.  Let  the  statesman 
and  the  student  examine  the  labor  situation  of  the  South  and 
then  deny. 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


7 


species  of  a lower  type  than  his  own — from  which 
status,  despite,  too,  the  oft-time  preponderance  of  Cau- 
casian blood,  he . was  morally  and  physically  unable 
to  arise,  much  less  aspire — was  clearly  shown  in  the 
vast  liberties  allowed  the  slaves  in  the  household.  That 
the  bondman  did  on  more  than  one  occasion  rise  far 
above  the  status  described  by  the  master,  should  not  be 
cause  for  wonder  at  this  day,  when  both  the  political 
and  social  equalities  of  the  races  are  better  understood, 
if  not  generally  conceded.  And  granting  that  a major- 
ity of  the  slaves  were  incapable  of  attaining  to  an  in- 
tellectual equality  with  the  masters,  what  excuse  can 
be  offered  for  having  imposed  upon  the  bondman  a con- 
dition which  was  the  very  essence  of  refined  cruelty 
and  torture?  Did  the  slaveholder — the  aristocratic 
master — pay  the  penalty  for  his  egregious  blunder? 
The  traditions  of  the  freedman  will  sufficiently 
answer. 

To  those  who  have  a correct  knowledge  of  the  fam- 
iliarity which  the  Negro,  now  a freedman,  enjoys  today 
in  the  Southern  household, 4 ‘ The  Story  of  a Slave  ’ ’ will 
not  come  wholly  as  a revelation.  Much  as  the  slave- 
holder of  former  times  and  the  present  employer  of 
Negro  labor  in  the  South,  regard  themselves  immeas- 
urably above  the  black  man,  they  held  and  still  hold 
the  latter  as  an  indispensable  fixture  in  the  household, 
in  the  field,  and  in  the  factory.  The  Negro  having  been 
accorded  so  useful  and  permanent  a position  in  the 
domestic  and  industrial  fabric  of  the  South,  is  it  any 
wonder  that  the  social  fabric  should  show  upon  its 
woof  of  white  the  unmistakable  evidences  of  its  ever- 
present warp — a cross  of — black?  To  have  expected 
otherwise  would  have  been  to  ignore  the  most  impera- 
tive, the  most  irresistible  law  of  nature. 

In  the  North,  where  freedom,  and  particularly  Negro 
freedom,  has  ever  been  preached  as  a gospel — where 
emancipation  was  considered  essential  to  the  preserva- 
tion of  the  Union— the  Negro  himself  has  ever  been 
held  at  arms-length  socially,  and  freedman,  though  he 


8 THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 

has  ever  been,  his  social  status  has  been  one  of  the  pre- 
scribed limits,  enforced  by  convention  if  not  upheld  by 
law.  Therefore,  to  a majority  of  the  people  of  the 
North  the  position  of  the  slave  in  the  old  Southern 
household  will  appear  all  the  more  anomalous,  the  ig- 
norance of  facts  having  resulted  wholly  from  an  inade- 
quate and  at  best  wholly  superficial  study  of  the 
race  and  labor  question  of  the  South. 

For  this  reason,  coming  even  at  this  late  day,  “The 
Story  of  a Slave, ” will  carry  with  it  ample  food  for 
the  serious  reflections  of  the  students  of  Sociology  and 
open  up  an  avenue  of  discussion  which  has  been  ob- 
structed by  political  exigency  and  through  which  alone 
can  come  a pacific  settlement  of  the  social  problem  of 
the  South. 

Dismissing  entirely  the  importance  of  the  philosoph- 
ical deductions,  which  can  be  made  from  the  pages 
which  follow,  and  looking  at  the  “Story  of  a Slave ” 
purely  as  the  memoirs  of  one  whose  youth  and  early 
manhood  were  spent  in  the  despised  station  of  a bond- 
man,  first,  on  the  plantation,  and  later  in  the  household 
of  his  master  in  Alabama,  the  morals  to  be  drawn,  if 
such  there  be,  must  depend  largely  upon  their  authen- 
ticity as  an  autobiography.  It  is  for  this  reason  that 
it  is  desired  to  fully  impress  the  reader  as  to  their 
genuineness —without  desiring  or  attempting  to  impose 
upon  his  credulity  in  the  smallest  measure.  The  thread 
of  romance  which  runs  throughout  the  narrative  was 
not  spun  from  the  distaff  of  Fiction,  but  from  that 
distaff  of  Fate,  from  which  runs  the  ever-varying, 
never-ending  thread  of  destiny,  holding  in  its  slender 
bond,  joys  for  some  and  sorrows  for  us  all.  Is  there 
need  to  explain  why  the  identity  of  the  autobiographer 
is  withheld?  Were  the  “Story  of  a Slave’ ’ an  inven- 
tion, or  did  it  pursue  less  closely  the  events  which  in 
almost  startling  sequence  rounded  up  his  life  in  bond- 
age, or  laid  less  bare  the  lives  of  those  intimately  re- 
lated thereto,  a pseudonym  might  have  taken  the  place 
of  the  real  name  of  the  author.  But  why  attempt  to 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


9 


mislead  investigation  in  one  direction  or  invite  specu- 
lation in  another  by  such  an  apparent  subterfuge  ? Could 
the  real  name  be  given,  it  would  startle  the  reader  hard- 
ly less  sensibly  than  will  the  story.  The  eminence  which 
he  has  since  attained,  the  well-earned  successes  which 
have  come  to  him  in  his  life  as  a freedman,  devoted 
to  labors  which  would  adorn  the  proudest  manhood, 
would  possibly  be  the  strongest  proofs  which  could  be 
advanced  to  convince  the  most  skeptical  as  to  the 
truthfulness  of  the  story,  disclosing,  as  they  would,  a 
character  and  personality  which  would  reconcile  even 
the  most  intolerant  “ nigger-hater  ’ ’ to  the  startling, 
yet  not  unnatural  denounement  of  the  story. 

It  is  upon  this  one  point,  no  doubt,  that  the  veracity 
©f  the  autobiographer  will  be  assailed,  but  to  those  who 
may  thrust  aside  as  absurd  or  abhorrent  the  possibility 
of  such  a relation  between  mistress  and  slave  (the  com- 
mon relation  between  master  and  his  black  bondwomen 
inquiring  no  proof  or  defence  here)  to  them  we  will 
say  that  hundreds  of  indisputable  proofs  can  be  quick- 
ly advanced  to  show  that  such  relations  were  not  only 
sustained  in  other  instances,  but  that  in  many,  nay,  in 
a majority,  they  did  not  as  in  this,  emanate  from,  or 
were  they  hallowed  by,  a mutual  love,  however  justi- 
fied they  may  have  been  by  the  wretchedly  perverted 
social  condition  of  which  they  were  an  inevitable  con- 
sequence. 

While  in  the  annals  of  slavery  there  is  scarcely  a 
mention  of  this  condition,  while  in  the  volumes,  written 
and  spoken  in  antagonism  of  the  then  existing  system 
of  slavery  never  a syllable  was  uttered,  while  the  press 
itself  with  rare  exceptions  and  with  a consideration 
strangely  in  contrast  with  journalistic  enterprise  of 
this  period,  passed  over  the  most  flagrant  instances, 
without  comment,  often  dismissing  with  “A  Taste  of 
Hell  for  a Ravisher,”  what  should  have  been  called 
“Another  Burnt  Offering”  on  the  altar  of  the  Furies 
of  Slavery,  it  was  and  should  have  been  one  of  the 
strongest  and  most  appealing  reasons  for  the  speedy 


10 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


abolition  of  the  iniquitous  system.  And  only  one  whtt 
has  given  this  subject  the  serious  consideration  it  de- 
serves, and  acquainted  himself  with  the  real  facts  and 
the  social  conditions  which  were  inseparable  from  that 
institution,  can  appreciate  the  truth  and  motive  of  the 
“ Story  of  a Slave.  ” 


The  Publishers. 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE 


CHAPTER  I. 


YOUR  MASTER  WANTS  A HOUSE-BOY. 


I was  born  a slave  on  one  of  the  river  plantations 
of  my  mother’s  master,  General  Jules  Choteaux,  an 
©Id  soldier  of  the  Empire,  who,  after  the  disastrous 
wreck  of  Waterloo,  had  sought  safety  to  neck  and  for- 
tune in  the  wilderness  of  Alabama. 

It  was  no  unmeaning  boast  of  my  mother  that  she 
was  no  common  negress.  There  was  no  Guinea  blood 
in  her  veins,  no  ashy  Congo,  but  pure,  proud  Sene- 
gambia.  And  more  than  that,  she  was  of  royal  blood, 
daughter  of  a prince  and.  granddaughter  of  a king. 
Her  father,  “daddy  T’sa”  and  mother,  “mammy 
Zozu,  ” were  brother  and  sister,  eldest  and  twin  chil- 
dren of  the  King  of  Uamassa.  Heirs  to  the  throne,  they 
were  married  while  children,  and  would  have  succeeded 
to  the  kingdom  had  they  not  been  captured  by  an  in- 
vading host  and  sold  into  slavery  before  they  were 
yet  full  grown.  Happily,  they  were  not  separated 
during  the  long  voyage  across  the  seas,  and  more  for- 
tunate still,  they  were  both  bought,  with  a gang  of 
©thers,  by  the  old  General  and  placed  upon  the  same 
plantation,  where,  in  due  course  of  time,  my  mother 
was  born. 

Inheriting  something  of  her  parent’s  princely  dig- 
nity of  character  and  pride  of  caste,  my  mother  grew 
up  feeling  an  innate  superiority  to  her  black  yoke- 
mates in  slavery.  Her  parents  had  told  her  of  her 
royal  descent — for  negroes  are  as  tenacious  of  caste  as 

11 


12 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


other  races — and  taught  her  to  despise  the  common 
negro,  the  plebian  herd.  Thus  despising,  she  could 
not,  when  grown  into  lissom  womanhood,  consort  with 
one  of  their  number,  and  so,  looking  higher,  she  gave 
me  for  a father  her  young  master.  Jules,  the  eldest 
son  of  General  Choteaux — for  negress  as  she  was,  and 
black  as  the  purest-blooded  negro  could  be  black,  she 
was  a remarkably  attractive  woman,  whose  good  looks, 
graceful  figure,  voluptuous  bust,  cleanliness  of  dress, 
and  queenly  air,  caught  the  vagrant  fancy  of  the  young 
master,  not  very  dainty  at  best;  and  so,  without 
thought  for  the  issue,  1 was  begot— conceived  and 
born. 

I am  thus  particular,  at  the  risk  of  being  tedious, 
in  giving  the  particulars  of  my  lineage  and  birth,  that 
the  reader  in  judging  my  presumption,  my  longings, 
my  desperate  and  seemingly  sacrilegious  love,  may  the 
more  fully  understand  all  its  controlling  influences.  I 
wish  them  to  see  me  as  I was,  to  put  themselves  in  my 
place,  to  stand  as  I stood,  a mulatto  slave,  but  still 
a man — a strong,  robust  man— with  the  blood  of  a 
savage  race  of  kings  mingling  in  my  veins  with  the 
passionate  blood  of  a high-spirited  southerner,  to  feel 
as  I felt, .with  the  heart,  the  brain,  the  sensibilities  and 
the  passions  of  a man. 

My  father  never  saw  me ; he  would  not  have  ac- 
knowledged or  even  noticed  me  if  he  had.  The  day 
upon  which  I was  born,  he  was  killed  in  a duel  at 
Bladenhurg,  a few  miles  beyond  Washington.  That 
same  year,  the  old  master,  General  Choteaux,  was 
gathered  to  his  fathers,  and  the  vast  plantations,  with 
the  hundreds  of  negroes,  passed  into  the  possession  of 
his  only  surviving  heir,  Gustave  Choteaux,  at  once  my 
uncle  and  my  master. 

I remember,  very  pleasantly,  my  boyhood’s  days  on 
the  plantation.  Slavish  though  they  were,  they  were 
not  hard.  There  were  more  negroes,  stout,  able-bodied 
men  and  women,  than  could  be  profitably  employed  at 
work,  and  .^ve.  at  certain  seasons,  to  herd  the  cattle 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


13 


in  the  canebrake,  we  youngsters  had  nothing  to  do  but 
to  eat,  to  drink,  to  trap  birds,  to  fish,  and  to  roam  the 
woods  for  berries  and  nuts.  The  business  of  the  old 
plantation  consisted  as  much  in  raising  negroes  as  it 
did  in  cotton  or  sugar,  and  like  a lot  of  thoroughbred 
colts  fattening  for  market  the  young  negroes  were  al- 
lowed to  frisk  at  will. 

My  aristocratic  mother  took  care  to  impress  me  with 
a due  sense  of  my  own  superior  birth.  She  told  me  of 
my  royal  descent  through  her,  and  of  my  father’s 
claims  to  distinguished  ancestry.  My  grandfather,  her 
master,  she  told  me,  had  been  an  officer  under  the 
Grande  Napoleon,  and  his  father  was  a peer  of 
France. 

“Through  me,”  she  said,  over  and  over  again,  “you 
have  the  blood  of  kings  in  your  veins,  and  through 
your  father  you  have  the  best  blood  of  freemen.  Now 
you  must  remember  this,  and  let  me  catch  you  fool- 
ing with  one  of  these  corn-field  niggers.” 

Thus  inspired  and  admonished,  I fell  into  my  moth- 
er’s ways  and  grew  up  feeling  in  my  own  superior- 
ity a pitying  contempt  for  the  more  ignorant  and  stot- 
ish  of  my  fellow  slaves.  And  then,  a little  later  on, 
as  I grew  more  intelligent,  my  mind  began  to  reach 
out  with  a wondering  yearning  for  knowledge.  The 
wish  to  learn  how  to  read  and  write  as  I saw  the  over- 
seer’s children  learning,  took  posession  of  me. 

I was  handy  with  my  knife  and  had  fashioned  me 
a pretty  bow  and  set  of  arrows,  with  which  to  shoot 
birds,  lizards  and  frogs.  This  toy  excited  the  cupidity 
of  Yfillie  Gans,  the  son  of  the  overseer,  a lad  of  about 
my  own  age,  and  he  proposed  to  buy  it.  I agreed  to 
let  him  have  it  for  one  of  his  old  spelling  books,  pro- 
vided he  would  teach  me  as  far  as  “baker,”  and  the 
lessons  were  started  then  and  there.  This  was  one  Fri- 
day afternoon,  and  by  supper  I had  mastered  the  in- 
tricate mysteries  of  the  alphabet  and  by  Sunday  even- 
ing I knew  every  little  syllable  and  word  to  “baker.” 

“And  now,  Willie,”  I supplemented,  “I  will  give 


14 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


you  my  pet  squirrel  and  a poke  full  of  goobers  if  you 
.will  teach  me  all  through  the  book.” 

“I  will  do  it,”  he  said,  and  in  a month’s  time,  en- 
couraged by  the  plaudits  of  my  mother,  and  by  unflag- 
ging interest  and  close  application  I was  as  perfect 
in  orthography  as  it  was  possible  for  that  good  old 
spelling  book  to  make  me. 

This,  the  most  difficult  step  surmounted,  I found  no 
further  trouble  in  climbing  into  the  temple  of  knowl- 
edge the  only  drawback  being  the  lack  of  books. 

My  mother  helped  me  over  this  trouble  by  placing 
a well-filled  gourd  of  picayunes  and  dimes,  the  ac- 
cumulated savings  of  her  patient  life,  at  my  disposal, 
and  through  the  friendly  offices  of  Willie,  I managed 
to  get  together  quite  a little  shelf  of  simple  but  use- 
ful books,  stretching  in  their  range  from  Mother 
Goose’s  Melodies  to  a battered  copy  of  Pope’s  Trans- 
lation of  Homer’s  Iliad. 

But  time  wore  on  and  when  I was  about  eighteen 
years  old,  I,  with  a gang  of  other  young  fellows  like 
myself,  was  put  in  the  field  to  work.  The  task  was 
light,  however,  and  I did  not  mind  it,  I was  young, 
well  grown  to  my  age,  in  fact,  a man  in  stature,  active, 
lithe  and  strong  and  happily  had  a ready  knack  and 
disposition  for  work.  I could  easily  lead  all  others  in 
anything  we  had  to  do.  As  I look  back  now  after  all 
the  changes  that  have  come,  and  review  my  life  and 
my  work  on  that  river  plantation,  cut  off  almost  from 
all  intercourse  with  the  outside  world,  I do  not  find 
in  it  so  much  to  condemn  or  deplore.  We  worked,  it 
is  true,  but  not  tiringly  or  unwillingly.  We  were  hale, 
healthy  and  hearty.  We  had  a sufficiency  of  palatable 
and  wholesome  food,  good  clothes  to  wear,  shelter 
from  the  storm  and  fire  from  the  frost,  and  so  far  as 
the  article  of  living,  the  matter  of  animal  existence 
was  concerned,  we  were  as  well  to  do  as  kings,  and  a 
deal  more  contented. 

I have  since  made  the  history  of  labor  and  the  sub- 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


15 


jects  of  political  and  social  economy  a study,  and  slave 
though  I once  was,  and  with  all  the  prejudices  against 
the  system,  I do  not  hesitate  to  say,  that  in  all  my 
researches  in  books  or  travels,  I have  never  been  able 
to  find  a more  contented,  thrifty,  prosperous,  and 
happy  community  of  laborers  than  that  which  flour- 
ished on  the  Cossetot  plantation  of  Col.  Gustave  Chot- 
eaux,  in  Alabama. 

But  this  in  digressive.  Four  years  I worked  in  the 
fields  on  the  plantation,  growing  in  the  meanwhile  into 
stalwart  manhood,  when  there  came  another  great 
change  in  my  life. 

It  was  in  August  when  Colonel  Choteaux,  our  mas- 
ter, with  his  wife,  our  mistress,  came  on  a visit  of  in- 
spection to  the  plantation.  It  was  the  first  in  many 
years  that  the  master  had  come  and  was  the  first 
within  my  memory  that  the  mistress  had  ever  been 
seen.  Their  coming  was  greeted  something  like  the 
visit  of  a king  with  his  consort  to  an  outlying  prov- 
ince would  have  been,  with  loyal  grins  of  welcome, 
awkward  bows  of  homage,  and  gaping  wonder  and, 
withal,  much  gladness. 

I remember  my  own  sensations — comparatively  well 
read  as  I then  was — I stood  in  open-eyed  wonder  and 
speechless  admiration  of  the  splendor  of  the  equipage ; 
the  elegance  of  the  mistress’  toilet,  the  fragrance  of 
her  presence,  and  the  glitter  and  flash  of  her  jewel- 
ry. It  was  a marvel  and  a revelation  to  me. 
Even  Hance,  the  coachman,  with  his  smooth  hat,  his 
fleckless  coat,  long  buff  gauntlets  and  shiny  boots,  was 
a surprise  and  a pleasure. 

For  two  days  they  stopped,  lodging  at  the  overseer’s 
house,  and  the  morning  they  were  ready  to  start  away 
a score  of  us  young  men,  the  likeliest  of  the  lot,  were 
ordered  to  dress  ourselves  in  our  best  and  march  up 
to  the  yard  for  inspection. 

“Your  master  wants  a house-boy,  and  you  must  all 
look  your  best  and  brightest,”  explained  Mr.  Gans, 
when  he  summoned  us  to  go. 


16 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


Like  recruits  to  be  mustered  in  we  were  aligned  in 
one  rank  before  the  piazza,  and  with  hats  off  and  eyes 
to  the  front  we  stood  ready  for  inspection,  each  in 
tremulous  suspense  for  the  issue;  for,  be  it  known, 
that  to  be  a house-boy,  to  live  in  the  “big  house/'  to 
wait  upon  the  master  and  the  mistress,  was  the  acme 
of  a negro's  ambition.  It  was  to  him  an  office  more 
exalted  in  dignity  and  honor  than  the  office  of  queen's 
chamberlain.  No  wonder  we  stood  in  breathless  ex- 
pectancy, while  the  master  carelessly  flashed  his  glance 
up  and  down  the  line. 

Thanks  to  my  mother's  tidy  and  cleanly  habit,  my 
Sunday  suit  was  in  the  neatest  trim,  and  it  was  with 
something  nearly  akin  to  pride  that  I took  my  place 
in  line  next  to  the  head.  I felt  proud  of  my  strength, 
proud  of  my  stature,  proud  of  my  supple  limbs,  my  well 
turned  wrists  and  shapely  hands.  I was  proud  too — I 
may  be  pardoned  for  the  vanity — of  my  head  and  face, 
with  gestures  regular,  clear  cut  and  almost  classic. 
Baring  the  swarthy  complexion  and  the  too  crispy 
curling  hair,  there  was  but  little  of  the  negro  that 
showed  in  my  physique.  Could  I have  bleached  my 
skin  and  straightened  the  crisp  locks,  I could  have 
passed  not  only  for  a white  man,  but  a strikingly  hand- 
some one  at  that.  But  alas ! as  if  in  grim  mockery 
of  my  father's  features,  nature  had  given  me  my  moth- 
er's ebony  skin,  only  softening  it  enough  to  let  the 
warm  blood.show  through  when  called  up  into  my  face 
in  a tide  of  passion  or  of  anger. 

I watched  my  master — who,  be  it  remembered,  was 
my  uncle  also — and  was  struck  with  his  pleasing  ap- 
pearance, handsome,  good  natured,  easy,  dainty.  There 
was  nothing  in  form  or  features  to  suggest  the  remot- 
est suspicion  of  kinship  between  us — my  mother  al- 
ways declaring  that  my  father  was  the  handsomer  man 
of  the  two,  and  that  they  were  antipodal  in  looks  as 
well  as  in  disposition,  my  master  fair  and  effeminate, 
my  father  dark,  rugged  and  manly. 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


17 


All  this  I recalled  as  I watched  his  glance  and  then 
I held  my  breath  to  catch  his  words  as  he  spoke:  4 ‘That 
fellow  there  in  the  middle!  You,  sir;  what  is  your 
name?”  he  asked,  pointing  to  a full  blown,  lazy-eyed 
negro  who  stood  some  distance  below  me. 

“Name’s  Handibal,  sah.” 

4 4 Hannibal  is  it  ? How  old  are  you  ? ’ ’ 

4 4 Do ’an  know,  sah.  I’ze  grown,  I s’pects.” 

4 4 Very  well,  I think  you  will  do.  What  about  him, 
Gans  ? ’ ’ 

4 4 He  is  good  enough  for  a house  nigger,  only  lazy. 
The  strap  though  will  keep  him  awake.” 

4 4 Very  well,  that  will  give  employment  to  Joe  and 
help  to  keep  him  awake.  I will  take  Hannibal.  What 
say  you,  Pauline?” 

“I  don’t  like  him.  There,”  pointing  to  me,  4 4 is  a 
much  likelier  boy.  What  is  your  name?” 

With  a little  triumph  I placed  my  hands  upon  by 
breast  and  bowed  as  gracefully  as  I could. 

4 4 My  name  is  Paul.” 

44 A very  good  name!  And  how  old  are  you?” 

4 4 1 am  twenty-two  years  old.  ’ ’ 

4 4 Ah!  and  do  you  think  you  could  wait  upon  me, 
rock  my  chair,  swing  my  hammock,  fan  me  to  sleep, 
fetch  my  slippers  and  such  things?” 

“I  should  be  glad  to  serve  you  any  way,  as  long  as 
I live,”  I said  a little  impulsively,  for  I was  carried 
away  by  the  prospect. 

4 4 Ah!  that  is  nice.  And  what  of  him,  Mr.  Gans?” 

4 4 Oh ! he  is  an  improvement  on  Ham.  A little  starchy 
and  slightly  stuck  up,  but  a good  larruping  occasion- 
ally will  keep  him  down ; only  to  do  him  justice  I must 
say  that  I never  had  to  strike  him  a lick  in  my  life. 
He  is  one  of  - the  best  niggers  on  the  place.  It  will  be 
a pity  to  spoil  such  a good  field  hand  by  making  a 
house-boy  of  him.” 

4 4 Is  he  a good  field  hand?  Then  he  will  make  a bet- 
ter house  servant,  Gustave,  we  will  take  Paul.” 

And  thus  it  was  decided  that  without  any  volition 


18 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


of  my  own,  I was  to  be  lifted  out  of  the  even  tenor 
of  my  old  life,  and  transplanted  from  the  field  to  the 
garden,  from  the  old  cabin  under  the  gnarled  chest- 
nut to  the  proud  mansion  among  the  elms. 

I looked  at  my  mistress  and  thanked  her  with  my 
most  humble  obeisance.  She  was  a lovely  lady,  and 
though  the  mother  of  grown-up  children,  was  yet  fresh 
and  fair  with  the  traces  of  a once  radiant  beauty  cling- 
ing lovingly  to  her  still.  I felt  that  it  would  be  no 
drudgery  to  serve  her,  but  a happiness,  instead. 

“You  need  not  to  trouble  about  clothes,”  she  said 
as  she  waived  me  away.  “We  will  have  new  clothes 
made  for  you  at  home.  Take  nothing  from  here  that 
you  would  not  wish  to  have  burned.  You  will  have  to 
strip  when  you  get  there  and  have  your  old  clothes 
burned.  We  can  not  allow  the  smell  of  the  plantation 
to  invade  the  house.” 

And  with  this  I was  dismissed  to  follow  them  on  as 
soon  as  I could  catch  and  saddle  my  mule. 


CHAPTER  II. 


A HOUSE-BOY’S  TEMPTATION. 


I had  read  in  the  rambling  course  of  my  studies  of 
the  beautiful  homes  of  the  rich;  pictures  of  suburban 
villas  and  historic  mansions  had  given  me  an  idea  of 
architectural  beauty  and  splendor,  but  I had  never  con- 
ceived anything  so  really  beautiful  and  grand  as  the 
home  mansion  of  my  master.  It  was  large,  roomy  and 
elegant.  A broad  portico,  columned  with  marble,  run- 
ning the  entire  length,  shaded  the  front.  To  the  right 
of  the  spacious  entrance  hall  was  the  parlor;  opening 
into  this  was  the  music  room,  and  into  this  the  pic- 
ture gallery.  To  the  left  were  the  library,  the  gentle- 
men’s smoking  room  and  the  billiard  room.  In  an  L 
running  back  from,  this  was  the  cozy  dining  room.  In 
a corresponding  wing  on  the  right  was  the  family  sit- 
ting room,  opening  into  the  master’s  office  and  through 
it  into  the  mistress’  boudoir  and  bed  room.  The  up- 
per floors  of  this  wing,  reached  by  a broad  stair-way 
from  the  hall,  was  appropriated  to  the  ladies’  rooms, 
as  the  second  story  of  the  opposite  wing  was  assigned 
to  the  gentlemen,  a court  in  the  center  separating  the 
two  divisions.  Still  back  of  the  dining  room  were  the 
kitchen  and  pantries,  over  which  were  the  servant’s 
rooms.  Altogether  it  was  a magnificent  place,  palatial 
in  the  splendor  of  its  appointments. 

It  was  sun-down  when  I arrived  and  reported  to  my 
master. 

“Oh,  yes,  you  are  the  new  boy!  Here  Joe.”  Joe 
was  the  steward,  or  rather  factotum  of  the  household. 
“Here,  Joe,  is  a boy  I have  brought  from  the  plantation 
to  take  the  place  of  Tom.  He  will  wait  upon  the 

19 


20 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


mistress  and  attend  to  the  women.  You  had  better 
stall  him  in  the  little  cuddy  upstairs  at  the  end  of  the 
ladies'  hall.  He  looks  like  a stout  young  buck  and  the 
girls  will  feel  safer  when  they  have  such  a burly  young 
fellow  to  keep  off  the  boogers.  Take  him  around  to 
the  kitchen  and  give  him  his  supper,  and  then  shake 
him  down  in  his  cell  until  morning  when  your  mistress 
will  take  him  in  hand.  7 7 

“Yes,  sah.  Yere,  yo7  nigger,  dis  way,  f oiler  me/7 
said  Joe,  leading  the  way  to  the  kitchen  where  a warm 
supper  was  ready  for  me. 

After  supper  and  the  interchange  of  courtesies  with 
my  new  mates,  Joe  conducted  me  around  to  the  east 
wing,  up  the  stairway  and  through  the  ladies7  hall  to 
my  little  cell  of  a room,  a box  as  it  were  against  the 
outer  wall  at  the  end  of  the  hall  and  overhanging  the 
rear  veranda  below.  It  opened  into  the  hall  and  seemed 
built  for  a sentry  box  from  which  to  watch  and  guard 
the  sanctity  of  the  ladies7  rooms  which  occupied  the 
entire  wing,  opening  on  either  side  from  the  long, 
broad  hall.  The  room  was  bare  of  furniture  but  a roll 
of  carpeting  spread  upon  the  floor  made  an  excellent 
bed  on  which,  bewildered  by  my  strange  and  surpris- 
ing surroundings,  I vainly  tried  to  sleep. 

Early  in  the  morning,  Joe  came  for  me,  the  more  I 
soon  found,  to  show  his  authority  than  for  anything 
else. 

“De  fust  thing  yo7  hab  ter  do  ob  a mornin7  is  ter 
trot  down  ter  de  wash-hole  an'  jump  years  ober  head 
an7  scrub  yerself,77  he  explained,  leading  the  way,  with 
the  household  gang,  to  the  wash-house.  After  break- 
fast he  conducted  me  back  into  the  master  7s  office  for 
instructions. 

“Oh,  here  you  are  again;  well,  Joe,  take  him  to  his 
mistress.  He  is  her  dog.  She  will  tell  you  what  to  do 
with  him/'  pointing  by  a nod  of  the  head  to  the 
mistress’s  room. 


Without  the  ceremony  of  knocking*  Joe  pushed  me  f 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


21 


before  him  into  the  chamber  of  the  mistress,  where 
much  to  my  confusion  we  found  her  sitting  in  the 
airiest  kind  of  a morning  dress,  whiie  her  maid  was 
combing  her  hair. 

And  right  here,  as  this  is  a history  of  the  inner  life, 
the  penetralia  of  the  old  southern  home,  it  may  not 
be  amiss  to  refer  to  one  of  its  most  peculiar,  puzzling 
and  paradoxical  features.  I mean  the  shameless,  or 
not  shameless,  but  rather  unconscious,  though  immod- 
est familiarity  of  the  southern  mistress  with  slave, 
male  or  female,  boy  or  man. 

I know  that  they  were  modest,  these  southern  mist- 
resses. The  slightest  approach  to  a wilful  indecency 
would  cause  their  cheeks  to  burn  scarlet  and  call  down 
a swift  and  sure  reprimand  upon  the  indiscreet  slave 
that  exhibited  it.  But  in  their  intercourse  with  their 
negro  slaves  they  seemed  to  have  no  thought  of  pro- 
priety, no  sense  of  shame,  no  idea  of  immorality.  I 
remember  the  surprise,  even  shock  it  gave  me  that 
morning  when  I stood  in  her  chamber  and  looked  upon 
that  proud  lady,  more  loosely  draped  than  I had  ever 
seen  my  own  mother.  But  abashing  as  was  the  sight, 
my  first  experience,  it  was  nothing,  hardly  a sugges- 
tion of  imprudence,  to  what  I was  afterwards  to  see 
and  at  last  learn  to  look  upon  with  indifferent  famil- 
iarity. It  may  seem  incredible  to  those  who  do  not 
know,  but  I have  been  called  into  her  bath-room  to  ad- 
just the  faucet  or  to  temper  the  bath  while  she  stood 
by  as  innocent  of  drapery,  and  I may  say  as  uncon- 
scious of  impropriety,  as  Mother  Eve  when  she  first 
stood  before  the  wondering  eye  of  Adam. 

And  yet  Madam  Choteaux  was  not  a lickerish,  or 
even  immodest  woman.  She  would  have  screamed  in 
confusion  and  blushed  crimson  had  it  been  her  own 
husband  instead  of  me,  the  negro  slave,  who  stood 
gaping  upon  her. 

The  slaveholders,  masters  and  mistresses  had  been 
educated  to  regard  their  negroes  as  they  regarded  the 


23 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


furniture,  or  their  cats  and  dogs,  a species  of  domes- 
tic fixture,  having  eyes  to  see  not,  and  ears  to  hear 
not,  senses  to  feel,  and  yet  to  feel  not.  My  God ! when 
I look  back  upon  those  times,  and  knowing  the  warm, 
passionate,  almost  bestial  propensities  of  my  race,  and 
the  terrible  temptations  which  the  then  prevailing,  un- 
conscious indiscretions  of  the  southern  mistresses  in 
the  exposure  of  their  charms,  daily  put  before  their 
slaves,  I shudder  even  now  at  the  danger  and  can  only 
wonder  that  there  were  not  more  outrages,  with  the  in- 
evitable hanging  or  burning,  or  emasculation  follow- 
ing swiftly  after.* 

It  is  for  this,  the  removal  of  such  a terrible  tempta- 
tion from  the  weakness  of  my  helpless  fellow  slaves, 
more  than  any,  emoluments  freedom  has  brought  them, 
that  I thank  my  God  for  the  abolition  of  a system  that 
made  such  a social  condition  possible. 

Nor  was  this  imprudent  exposure  of  charms  that 
should  have  been  hidden,  confined  to  the  matron  or 
mistress  alone.  The  girls  and  young  ladies  were  taught 
from  babyhood  to  regard  the  negro  boy  or  man  as  a 
stick  or  stone,  a species  of  animated  dummy,  with  only 
feeling  and  sense  enough  to  fetch  and  carry. 

The  eunuchs  in  the  eastern  harem  had  no  more  lib- 
erty of  associates  with  the  inmates  of  the  seraglio  than 
the  southern  negro  slave  had  with  the  ladies  of  his 
master’s  house. 

Take  my  own  case,  for  instance.  I was  a young 
man,  healthy,  strong  and  robust  and  full  of  animal 


*The  legal  tribunals  were  not  troubled  with  such  offenses, 
but  conventional  usage,  more  swift  and  more  inexorable,  had 
prescribed  the  punishment  according  to  the  degree  of  the 
offense.  Of  these  degrees  there  were  three,  rape,  assault  and 
fornication.  The  penalty  for  the  first  was  burning  at  the 
stake,  for  the  second  hanging,  and  the  third  castration  and 
sale  to  the  “specualtor,”  or  negro  trader,  the  master  being  both 
judge  and  executioner.  Sometimes  the  value  of  the  negro  and 
the  cupidity  of  the  master,  influenced  the  judgment,  and  not 
infrequently  castration  and  sale  took  the  place  of  death. 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


23 


spirits,  a stranger  in  the  house,  and  yet,  I was  to  bfe 
invested  with  the  keys  and  midnight  surveillance  of 
every  lady’s  chamber  in  the  house.  It  was  to  be  my 
duty,  not  absolutely,  to  disrobe  and  put  them  to  bed, 
but  to  stand  by  if  I wished  and  look  on  while  the  more 
deft-fingered  maid  performed  the  delicate  service.  And 
then,  when  all  were  tucked  snugly  away  and  ready 
for  dreamland,  it  remained  for  me  to  see  that  the 
windows  were  secured,  the  fire  well  banked  and  all 
safe  before  I could  go.  And  then,  the  first  in  the  morn- 
ing I had  to  go  in  and  kindle  the  fire,  to  arrange  the 
bath  and  to  polish  the  dainty  boots.  This  much  I write, 
to  further  explain  the  bewildering,  entrancing,  treach- 
erous, smoothness  of  the  stream  upon  which,  helpless 
as  a cork  drifting  down  Niagara,  my  destiny  had  been 
launched. 

^ ^ ^ ^ 

“Well,  what  is  it,  Joe?”  asked  my  mistress  with- 
out troubling  herself  to  close  the  openi  placquet 
through  which  two  still  plump  and  pinky  breasts  un- 
winkingly  peered. 

“Yere’s  dis  nigger  wot  yo’  fotched  from  the  corn- 
field. Marster  tole  me  to  fotch  ’im  ter  yer  an’  ax  yo’ 
wot  ter  do  wid  ’m.” 

“Oh,  yes,  the  new  boy,  Peter,  I had  forgotten.” 

“Not  ‘Peter,’  but  ‘Paul,’  if  you  please,  ma’am,”  I 
respectfully  corrected. 

“Oh,  yes,  so  it  is;  well,  Joe,  the  first  thing  is  to 
have  him  properly  dressed.  Take  him  to  the  tailor  and 
have  an  outfit  at  once,  everything  from  his  shoes 
to  his  hat.  You  seem  to  look  neat;  have  you  taste 
enough  to  know  what  is  becoming  to  you  or  shall  I 
write  Mr.  Murdough  to  select  for  you?”  she  asked, 
turning  to  me. 

“I  should  like  best  to  please  you  and  not  myself,” 
I answered. 

“Very  well;  Joe,  tell  Mr.  Murdough  to  fit  him  up 
nicely,  and  have  two  other  suits  made  for  him.  And, 


24 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


mind,  when  you  come  back,  take  him  down  to  the 
wash-house  and  have  him  scrubbed.  Make  him  scrub 
himself  from  the  crown  of  his  head  to  the  sole  of  his 
feet.  Burn  up  your  old  clothes,  and  then  when  you 
are  properly  dressed  you  can  come  to  me  and  let  me 
see  if  I can  make  anything  out  of  you/’  and  with  a 
wave  of  her  hand  she  dismissed  us. 

At  the  gate  Joe  put  on  the  air  of  a master. 

“ Yo ’ go  down  ter  de  lot  dar,  an’  tell  Dick  ter 
eotch  my  mare  foh  me,  an’  yo’  cotch  a mule  foh  yo ’it- 
self, an’  lemme  tel  yo’  boy  yo’s  got  ter  step  along 
a heap  moah  libely  or  fuss  thing  yo’  knows  I’ll  hab 
ter  take  a cowhide  ter  yo’.  Yo’  moves  too  slow  ter 
suit  me;  mine,  now,  wot  I tells  yo’;  niggers  has  got 
ter  stir  der  stumps  when  dey  roosts  ’bout  me,  I do ’an 
like  a nigger  no  how.” 

I felt  strongly  tempted  to  resent  this  gratuitous  in- 
solence, but  was  not  certain  of  the  fellow’s  authority 
and  power,  and  so  hurried  awpy  to  execute  his  order 
without  cavil. 

The  horses  were  soon  ready  and  mounting  we  rode 
away  in  a trot,  Joe  asserting  his  dignity  by  springing 
a few  paces  ahead,  while  I a little  doggedly  jogged  on 
behind. 

As  soon,  however,  as  we  were  well  out  of  sight  from 
the  house  the  fellow’s  garrulous  curiosity  got  the  bet- 
ter of  his  dignity,  and  nodding  back  for  me  to  come 
up  he  commenced : 

“Now,  Buck,  I wants  ter  know  who  yo’  is,  an’  whar 
yo’  comes  from;  wot’s  yer  marmmy’s  name,  an’  all 
’bout  yer?” 

I thought  it  well  enough  to  conciliate  his  friendli- 
ness and  answered  with  due  respect  that  my  name  was 
“Paul,”  and  that  I came  from  the  plantation 

“Wot  one  ob  de  plantations,  yo’  signify?”  he  in- 
terrupted. 

“Ohv  the  master’s  plantation,  of  course.” 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


25 


“But  wot  one,  yo’  fool  yo’;  do ’an  yo’  knows  dat 
we  uns  hab  three  plantations?” 

“No,  I did  not  know  it.” 

“Well  den,  we  has.  Dar’s  de  Muskerdine  planta- 
tion, an’  dar’s  de  Magnowly  place,  an’  dar’s  de  Cos- 
sertot,  wid  ober  a hundred  niggers  on  each  place,  wid 
mules  accordin’.  Now,  wot  one  am  it  yo’  was  fetched 
up  on?” 

“I  do  not  know  the  name,  but  suppose  it  must  be 
the  Cossetot,  as  that  is  the  name  of  the  stream  that 
runs  through  it.” 

“Who’s  der  boss  oberseer?” 

“Mr.  Gans.” 

“Yuh,  dat’s  de  Cossertot.  An’  wot  de  debbil  yo’ 
specs  ole  mistus  wants  wid  yo, ; dar’s  ten  boys  a ’ready 
in  de  house,  an’  dat’s  moah  dan  I kin  keep  strate.” 

I could  not  enlighten  him  on  that  point,  and  he 
went  on. 

“An’  how  yo’  ’spects  yo’ll  like  it?  Yo’ll  fine  Miss 
Pauline  a monstrous  good  mistus,  ’cept  wT’en  yo’  makes 
her  mad,  an’  den,  phew,  we’n  yer  jist  git  her  dander 
up  she’s  a pufect  singe  cat.  I tell  yo,’  nigger,  yo’ll 
hab  ter  walk  a chalked  line  we’n  yo’  steps  ’bout  her.” 

I assured  him  it  would  be  my  greatest  care  to  al- 
ways please  her,  and  then,  still  uneasily  perplexed  at 
our  unceremonious  intrusion  upon  the  privacy  of  her 
chamber,  I asked: 

“Don’t  you  think  it  was  too  saucy  in  us  to  go  into 
her  room  as  we  did  this  morning  and  catch  her  un- 
dressed. I am  sorry  we  did  it.” 

“Shoo,  boy,  dats  nuffin’,  yo’ll  soon  get  usen  ter  all 
dem  kine  o’  tricks.  De  mistus  do ’an  no  moah  kere 
f er  yo  ’ den  she  do  for  de  ole  pussy  cat.  But  mine,  now, 
nigger,  lem  me  tell  yer,  yo’  mussen  mine  needer.  Yo’ 
haster  keep  yer  fool  eyes  shet  an’  do ’an  yer  see  nuf- 
fin’, an’  zif  yer  do  peep  one  eye  on  it,  sorter  sly  like, 
des  keep  yer  mouf  shet  an’  hole  yer  tongue.  Dem  i? 
things  as  mussent  be  talked  ’bout,  or  fust  thing  yt' 


26 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


knows,  yer’ll  des  know  nuffin’.  Dat  war  des  de  mat- 
ter wid  Tom.” 

“With  Tom?”  I asked. 

“Yuh;  de  nigger  wot  waited  on  de  wimmin  fokses 
afore.  Tom  got  too  biggity  like,  an’  went  sniggerin’ 
one  day  we’en  de  mistus  slipped  up  on  a bannaner 
peelin’  on  de  porch  an’  happen  ter  hab  er  little  axcer- 
dent.” 

“Accident?”  I repeated. 

“Yuh,  axcerdents  will  sometimes  happen  ter  de  qual- 
ity folks  as  well’s  ter  de  buckra,  an’  so  mistus’  heels 
flewed  up  an’  Tom  seed  sumfin’,  an’  den  stid  o’  shettin’ 
his  eyes  like  a nigger  orter,  de  blame  fool  went  ter 
sniggerin’  like  a baboon,  an’  de  nex’  day  he  war 
marched  off  ter  town  an’  sole  ter  a specerlater,  an’ 
dats  de  lass  we’s  seed  ob  him.  White  fokses  is  mity 
kurus  fokses  enyhow,  an’  dey  won’t  stan’  fer  a nig- 
ger ter  notis  nuffin’,  leas ’wise  zif  dey  do  dey  mussen’t 
go  ter  grinnin’  at  ’em.  White  lady’s  tricks  wosn’t 
made  for  niggers  ter  grin  at.  So  now  I puts  yer  on 
yer  excusements  soze  yer  kin  mine  wot’s  wot.” 

“Yes,  you  are  very  kind  and  I shall  remember,”  I 
answered,  wondering  if  the  fellow  really  meant  it  for 
a caution  or  was  only  playing  on  my  natural  credul- 
ity. 

“So  yer  do,  an’  f udder  on  arterawhile  we  most  in 
general  sometimes  hab  a monstrous  heap  ob  company, 
young  ladies  an’  young  gemmens,  all  de  quality  nabers 
cornin’  ter  take  Chrismus,  an’  den  yer’ll  see  der  sites 
as ’ll  make  yer  mouf  water.  Fine  young  ladies,  des 
as  fine  as  fiddles,  an’  as  plump  as  pa’tridges,  an’  as 
purty  as  hollyhocks,  sly  pussies,  all  of  ’em ; an  ’ though 
dey’d  be  shamed  like  ter  talk  ’bout  a kitten’s  whiskers 
afore  de  beaux,  yo’  des  wait  twill  dey  gits  in  dey 
rooms  an’  fix  foh  bed  zif  yo’  wants  ter  see  tomboy 
capers — r a si  in’,  turnin’  summersets,  skinnin’  cats  an’ 
all  udder  kines  ob  projickin’.  Yo’ll  hab  ter  wait  on 
dey  rooms,  make  fires,  fasten  winders,  tote  water  an’ 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


27 


black  dey  shoes,  an’  yo’  keep  from  seem’  ’em,  fer  dey 
won’t  mine  yo’  no  moah  dan  dey ’ill  mine  de  fire-dogs. 
It’s  purty  bahd  on  a pooh  devil  ob  a nigger  like  yo’ 
but  yer ’ll  des  hab  ter  stan’  it,  speshally  twill  yer  gits 
usened  ter  it.” 

I thanked  him  for  his  friendly  advice  and  we  can- 
tered along. 

It  was  some  four  miles  to  the  village,  a straggling 
country  town,  but  our  rapid  pace  soon  brought  us  to 
it,  Joe  resuming  his  dignity  and  reasserting  his  prece- 
dence as  we  came  in  sight. 

Going  directly  to  the  tailor’s  shop,  Joe  presented 
me. 

“Yere’s  a coon  Mistus  Choteaux  cotched  in  de  Cos- 
sertot  swamp,  an’  she  tole  me  to  fotch  ’im  ter  yo’  an’ 
let  yer  see  if  he  is  wuff  skinnin’.” 

Mr.  Murdough  was  a jolly  Scotchman,  half  tipsy. 

“Ah,  yes,  a fine  looking  coon.  Haul  off  your  coat 
and  turn  around  and  let  me  see.  By  Hercules,  what  a 
splendid  physique.  You  would  do  for  a model.  Hand 
me  my  tape,  Randall;  let  me  measure.  Eh,  mon,  I 
will  have  to  make  you  a coat,  there  is  none  in  the  shop 
broad  enough  in  the  shoulders  for  you,”  applying  the 
measure  as  I turned  for  his  inspection.  “What  all  is 
it  he  wants,  Joe?” 

“He  wants  eberything,  from  sorks  to  a hat;  Mistus 
Choteaux  ses  ter  rig  ’im  out  an’  out  from  tip  to  toe. 
She  wants  three  suits  as  soon  as  yo’  kin  fix  ’em.” 

“Then  he  will  have  to  come  back  to-morrow  even- 
ing. I will  have  a suit  by  then;  there  is  nothing  in 
the  shop  to  fit  him  now.”  And  after  ^complete  meas- 
urement, I was  dismissed  and  we  rode  back  home. 

“Here  he  are,  Mistus,”  said  Joe,  ushering  me  into 
the  mistress’  little  drawing-room. 

“But  where  are  his  clothes?” 

“Mr.  Murder  haster  make  ’em— dar  wan’t  none  big 
©nuff  fer  him.  He  ses  send  ’im  back  termorrer  ebenin’ 
an’  git  ’em.” 


28 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


“Very  well.  Send  him  out  to  the  stables  and  let 
him  stay  there  until  he  gets  them.  I will  have  Sealy 
to  make  his  shirts.  Send  Sealy  to  me.” 

Sealy  was  the  house-seamstress  or  superintendent  of 
"the  sewing  room,  in  which  a half  dozen  smart  negro 
girls  were  kept  constantly  busy  with  the  family  sew- 
ing. 

“You  stand  here  until  she  comes,”  added  my 
mistress,  as  I turned  to  follow  Joe.  “She  will  want  to 
measure  your  collar.” 

In  a moment  Sealy  appeared,  tape  and  scissors  in 
hand. 

“Measure  this  boy  for  a dozen  linen  shirts,  and  have 
them  made  right  away.  Let  me  see ; turn  around.  A 
Byron  collar,  with  a little  pink  ribbon  for  a tie  will 
suit  him  best.  And,  now,  Buck,  I want  you  to  under- 
stand that  you  are  to  keep  clean.  The  least  fleck  of 
dirt  on  your  coat,  shirt  or  collar,  will  be  whipped  off 
with  the  cowhide.  I can’t  stand  dirt  around  my  house. 
You  must  strip  and  scrub  yourself  thoroughly,  every 
morning,  the  first  thing  you  do,  and  change  your  under- 
wear every  day.  You  will  have  a dozen  changes,  and 
Winnie  will  see  that  they  are  properly  laundried.  Do 
you  understand?” 

“Yes,  ma’am,  and  will  be  glad  to  do  it.” 

“Very  well;  now  you  can  go  to  the  stables  and  stay 
there  until  your  clothing  is  ready.  When  you  have 
scrubbed  and  dressed  you  can  come,  and  I will  tell 
you  what  you  have  to  do,”  and  with  this  she  dis- 
missed me. 

Now  this  may  sound  trivial,  but  I give  it  to  illustrate 
the  dainty  fastidiousness,  so  far  as  cleanliness  was  con- 
cerned, of  the  old  aristocratic  mistresses.  Nothing  like 
dirt  could  be  tolerated  in  the  house  or  about  the  per- 
son. There  was  a large  bath  house  down  by  the  spring 
in  which  every  negro  on  the  place  had  a tub,  or  more 
properly,  a vat,  into  which,  rain  or  shine,  hot  or  cold, 
he  was  required  to  plunge,  head  and  ears,,  every  morn- 
ing of  his  life.  Some  of  them  would  shrink  from  the 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


29 


plunge  and  especially  on  an  icy,  winter  morning,  and 
Joe  had  to  occasionally  use  his  whip  to  enforce  the 
duty;  but  to  me  it  was  a luxury,  healthy,  sweet  and 
exhilarating. 

I went  to  the  stable  where  I remained  immured  with 
the  hostler,  in  a species  of  punitive  probation,  until 
the  following  afternoon,  when  Joe  came  to  tell  me  to 
mount  my  mule  and  tote  into  town  after  my  clothes. 

Mr.  Murdough  had  worked  diligently,  and  I found 
a suit  ready,  a handsome  suit  of  blue,  light  summer 
cassimere,  fitting  to  a nicety  and  setting  off  my  natur- 
ally good  figure  to  the  best  advantage.  I was  vain 
enough  to  be  proud  of  and  flattered  by  it. 

Many  of  the  house  negroes  in  the  south  were  at- 
tired in  livery,  but  not  so  ours.  The  good  taste  of 
the  mistress  had  seen  that  our  different  physiques  and 
colors  required  different  styles  of  costume,  and  while 
our  clothing  was  of  the  best,  and  even  finest  materials, 
each  was  required  to  wear  that  which  best  became 
him. 

With  my  outfit  carefully  wrapped  I hurried  back  to 
report  to  Joe.  Sealy  had  been  equally  expeditious 
and  had  an  outfit  of  linen  ready. 

Armed  with  a pan  of  soft  soap  and  a bundle  of  corn 
cobs,  which  by  the  way  make  excellent  flesh  brushes, 
I was  ordered  to  follow  Joe  to  the  bath-house,  where 
a vat  was  assigned  me,  as  my  own  exclusive  property, 
and  in  a few  moments  I was  stripped  and  covered  from 
head  to  heels  with  a stringing,  lathery  foam,  Joe,  whip 
in  hand,  standing  by  to  see  that  the  “scrubbing’ ’ was 
thoroughly  done. 

Having  completed  my  purification  to  Joe’s  critical 
satisfaction,  and  rubbing  myself  dry  I was  invested 
in  my  new  attire.  The  old  plantation  clothes  were 
gingerly  bundled  up  and  cast  into  the  wash  furnace 
to  be  burned,  and  with  them  I put  away  the  old  planta- 
tion life  and  like  the  butterfly,  emerging  from  its  shell, 
I became  a new  man.  Even  my  old  shoes  were  cast 
aside  with  my  hat,  of  which  I had  once  been  so  proud, 


30 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


and  light  congress  gaiters,  and  a nobby  Kossuth  hat 
replaced  them. 

I had  a natural  taste  for  the  elegant  in  dress,  and 
deftly  arranging  my  cuffs  and  collar,  with  its  dainty 
little  tie  of  pink  ribbon,  I stepped  out,  quite  a dandy 
in  my  glory. 

“Yes,  yo’ll  do  fust-rate,  an’  ef  yo’  doan’t  mine,  yo’ll 
hab  all  de  gals  takin’  arter  yo’  foh  a sweetheart.  Yo’ 
must  be  keerful  though,  how  yo’  project  wid  dem  or 
yo’ll  hab  yo’  mistus  sendin’  yo’  an’  dem  off  ter  de 
plantation.  Yo’  has  ter  be  mity  sly,  I tells  y o’,  she 
watches  dem  gals  like  a hawk.” 

“She  needn’t  have  any  fear  for  me,”  I answered 
a little  stiffly.  “I  wouldn’t  wipe  my  foot  on  any  negro 
girl  that  ever  lived.” 

“Huh,  whose  yo’,  I’d  like  ter  know.  But  nevah 
mine,  yo’  des  wait  till  Miss  Jinny  comes  back  home 
wid  Sally  an’  den  we’ll  see.” 

“And  who  is  Miss  Jenny?”  I asked,  curious  to  know 
something  more  about  the  family. 

“Why,  yo’  fool  nigger,  doan’t  yo’  know  she’s  de 
young  mistus,  ob  cose,  wots  off  ter  school,  away  up 
norf  whar  she’s  ben  foh  moh’an  a yeah.” 

“And  who  is  Sally?” 

“Sally  is  de  yailer  gal,  wot  waits  on  her.  She’s 
most  white  an’  des  as  purty  as  new  shoes.  Yo’  des 
wait  till  Miss  Jinny  fotches  her  back  home  an’  den 
we’ll  see  wot  yo’s  got  ter  say  ’bout  wipin’  yo  foot 
on  a nigger.  I’ll  ’low  Mastah  Victor  will  broke  yo’ 
fool  head  ’bout  her  yet;  yo’  mine  if  he  doan.” 

“And  who  is  Master  Victor?” 

“Dar  yo’  is  again.  I ’clare  yo’s  de  biggest  fool  nig- 
ger I eber  seen.  Why,  doan  yo’  know  Mastah  Victor 
is  de  young  mastah?  He’s  off  ter  school,  too;  up  at 
de  univarsity?” 

“And  how  many  young  masters  are  there?” 

“Wot,  doan  yo’  knows?” 

“No,  I know  nothing  of  the  family.” 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


31 


4 1 Well,  well,  wot  a moke  yo'  iz,  not  ter  know  yo' 
own  mastahs.  Well  dar's  two  ob  'em,  Mars  Louis 
wot  is  married  an'  libs  in  de  city,  an'  Mastah  Vic- 
tor." 

“And  how  many  young  mistresses  have  we?" 

“Only  one,  Miss  Jinny,  an'  she's  a young  lady  most 
growed.  She’ll  be  home  nex'  yeah,  an'  'ill  fotch  Sally." 

“But  what  has  the  young  Master  Victor  got  to  do 
with  Sally  that  he  should  break  my  head  about  her?" 

“Humph!  Well  yo'  des  wTait  an'  see.  But  yondah 
is  y o'  mistus  on  de  portico  now,  an'  I'll  fotch  yo'  to 
her."  A moment  later,  “Heah,  mam,  heah's  dis  nig- 
ger. I made  him  scour  hisse'f  as  clean  as  a picked 
chicken,  an'  his  close  is  all  right,"  presenting  me  to 
the  lady,  who  surveyed  me  from  head  to  foot  with  a 
critical  but  approving  eye,  as  I stood,  hat  in  hand,  be- 
fore her. 

“Yes,  you  will  do;  a very  fine  looking  fellow.  You 
can  go  now,  Joe.  And  you,  4 Paul, ' you  say  is  your 
name?" 

“Yes,  madam,  ‘Paul.'  " 

“Very  well,  Paul,  I like  the  name;  but  now  I will 
tell  you  what  you  have  to  do.  This  side  of  the  house 
is  mine,  that  is,  it  is  set  apart  to  ladies.  The  parlor 
there,  the  music  room  and  my  drawing  room,  my 
boudoir  and  bed-chamber,  these  you  will  have  to  look 
after — air  them  in  the  day,  and  close  the  windows  at 
night.  Up  stairs,  on  this  side,  is  also  appropriated  ex- 
clusively to  ladies,  visiting  firends,  or  the  family.  My 
daughter’s  room  is  up  there,  immediately  over  mine. 
These  you  will  also  have  to  look  atfer — airing  them 
in  the  summer  and  making  fires  in  the  winter.  You  will 
sleep  up  there  in  the  little  chamber  where  you  slept 
the  other  night.  That  is  your  room  and  you  must 
keep  it  neat  and  clean.  Dora  will  show  you  a bed- 
stead and  bedding,  which  you  will  move  in  there  to 
make  yourself  comfortable.  She  will  also  give  you  a 
wash-stand  and  a bureau  with  towels  and  drawers. 
You  will  have  a comb  and  a brush  and  you  must  a!- 


32 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


ways  keep  yourself  in  a presentable  condition.  You 
will  also  have  to  wait  upon  me  and  your  master.  Wheel 
my  chair  for  me,  look  after  my  bath,  fan  me  if  neces- 
sary, and  rub  my  back  when  it  aches.  You  will  eat 
in  the  kitchen  with  the  other  negroes.  And  now  you 
can  go.  I shall  give  you  a day  or  two  to  get  ac- 
customed to  your  new  surroundings  and  shall  not  re- 
quire any  service  of  you  until  then.  Look  about  you 
in  the  meantime  and  learn  all  you  can,  and  day  after 
to-morrow  come  to  me  again  for  orders.” 

With  a very  clear  idea  of  what  was  to  be  expected 
of  me  and  an  honest  desire  to  please  my  gracious 
impress  in  all  things  I bowed  myself  off. 


: ; 


CHAPTER  III. 


THE  YOUNG  MISTRESS  RETURNS. 


I have  ever  had  the  happy  faculty  of  readily  adapt- 
ing myself  to  my  surroundings.  It  was  no  task  then 
for  me  to  fall  into  the  ways  of  my  new  life,  and  with 
the  still  happier  disposition  to  make  myself  agreeable 
and  useful  to  all  with  whom  I came  in  contact,  I soon 
won  my  way  into  the  confidence  of  my  master  and 
mistress,  and  to  the  good-will  of  my  fellow  servants. 

My  duties  were  light,  in  truth,  they  were  hardly  to 
be  called  duties  at  all,  so  pleasant  were  the  services. 
Not  a fourth  of  my  time  was  required  in  the  per- 
formance of  my  daily  routine  of  work,  leaving  me  free 
to  devote  the  remainder  to  eager,  zealous  study. 

My  master  cared  little  for  books,  but  for  all  that 
f \ he  had  a valuable  and  extensive  library,  more  for  os- 
| tentation,  perhaps,  than  for  practical  use.  This,  al- 
h j beit  surreptitiously,  I invaded  and  placed  under  con- 
fef  tribution,  and  drew  upon  its  resources  without  stint. 

\ Ah,  how  I gloated  upon  its  treasures,  grappling  even 
Ti  with  its  most  erudite  mysteries  and  compelling  their 
H K secrets. 

As  may  be  supposed,  many  of  the  works  were  in 
\ French,  but  with  the  aid  of  a French  and  English  lexi- 
j con  as  a key,  I soon  unlocked  their  treasures,  and  ere 
i j;  the  long,  idle  wintry  nights  were  passed,  and  the  spring 
1 1 had  come  again  I could  read  them  with  almost  as 
| much  ease  and  intelligent  understanding  as  I could 
read  my  own  mother  tongue.  Having  no  definite  plan 
|»  in  view,  I cared  little  for  the  abstruse  sciences,  but 
1 works  in  lighter  vein,  poetry,  fiction,  history,  biog- 
I |,  raphy  and  travels  were  sources  of  unfailing  delight. 

1 S3 


34 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


No  one  knew  of  my  studies.  I do  not  know  that 
they  would  have  interfered  if  they  had.  Still,  I 
thought  it  well  to  keep  them  in  the  dark.  And  it 
was  not  until  June  had  come  and  master  and  mistress 
had  gone  north  to  witness  the  graduating  honors  of 
their  daughter,  and  to  bring  her  home,  leaving  the 
library  in  my  absolute  charge,  that  I threw  off  all  re- 
serve and  boldly  pursued  my  studies  in  the  broad  open 
day,  as  well  as  in  the  secrecy  of  the  night. 

The  young  mistress,  Miss  Virginia,  was  at  the  Pat- 
apsco  institute  at  or  near  Baltimore,  and  after  the 
©losing  of  the  commencement  exercises  they  expected 
to  spend  the  summer  north,  alternating  between  the 
breezes  and  surf  of  Cape  May  and  the  mountain 
springs  of  Virginia. 

It  was  early  in  June  when  they  went  away  and  not 
until  the  first  of  October  did  they  return,  thus  giving 
me  quite  four  months  of  cumberless,  uninterrupted 
study,  I do  not  write  of  it  boastingly,  but  I very  much 
doubt  if  ever  another  student  has  made  such  use  of  his  / 
time  or  mastered  so  much  that  was  useful  to  the  under-  | 
standing,  as  I did  in  that,  the  golden  summer  of  my  it 
life.  My  powers  of  assimilation  were  unusually  large  !• 
and  combined  with  a retentive  faculty  which  in  later 
life  aided  me  in  rapidly  making  up  the  lost  ground 
of  my  youth  and  early  manhood,  my  store  of  knowl-  ; 
edge — practical  information — was  vastly  augmented, 
more  greatly  than  I,  myself,  could  appreciate  at  that 
time. 

But  the  home-coming  put  a stop  to  all  this.  "We  had  [ 
been  expecting  them  for  more  than  a week,  and  every 
day,  during  the  while  Hance,  the  carriage  driver,  had  j 
driven  to  the  landing  at  the  river  to  meet  them.  It 
was  a bright  October  afternoon  when  they  came,  in  |j 
the  soft  aftermath  of  summer.  Far  down  the  long,  elm- 
shaded  avenue  we  saw  the  carriage,  and  knew  by  the  j 
flutter  of  scarlet  ribbons  by  Hance  from  his  seat  on  M, 
the  box,  that  they  were  coming,  and  in  glad  expectancy 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


35 


the  household  ran  to  the  “big  gate”  to  meet  and  wel- 
come them. 

Soon  the  carriage  drew  up  and  hardly  waiting  for  it 
to  stop,  Sally,  the  maid,  a pert  mulatto  girl,  bounced 
down  from  her  perch  on  the  driver’s  box  and  opened 
the  chorus  of  boisterous  “how-dy’s.”  Then  Joe,  with 
the  gravity  of  his  importance,  opened  the  carriage  door 
and  let  down  the  steps  and  the  mitsress,  all  smiles  and 
gladness,  stepped  out.  I felt  a positive  joy  in  seeing 
her  kindly,  smiling  face  again. 

And  then,  like  a sudden  burst  of  morning  light,  with 
the  beautiful  face  of  a Hebe,  the  form  of  a Venus  and 
the  grace  of  Diana,  the  young  mistress  appeared,  the 
loveliest,  fairest  and  sweetest  vision  that  ever  dazzled 
the  sight  and  brain  of  mortal  man. 

I have  seen  many  beautiful  women  since  that  day. 
I love  to  look  upon  them  because  they  are  ahvays  a 
joy  to  behold.  I have  seen  pictures,  too,  of  lovely 
women,  the  famed  beauties  of  royal  courts ; but  never 
anywhere  in  the  flesh,  radiant  with  health  and  life, 
or  glowing  in  life-like  semblance  on  canvas  of  the  mas- 
ters, have  I seen  a woman  so  perfectly  lovely,  so  rav- 
ishingly  beautiful,  so  bewitchingly  sweet  and  fair  to 
look  upon  as  she  who  had  so  unexpectedly  burst  at 
once  upon  my  life  and  vision. 

For  a moment  she  stood,  stooping  in  the  carriage 
door  and  then,  as  if  disdaining  the  puerile  superfluity 
of  the  steps,  she  lightly  sprang  out  tripping  forward 
\ as  lissom  as  a fawn  and  as  blithe  as  a bird. 

And  then  came  the  affectionate  greetings  of  the 
negroes.  First  her  old  nurse,  Mammy  Julia,  gathered 
her  in  her  arms  as  she  sobbed  her  blessings ; then  her 
old  duenna,  Aunty  Dilsey,  then  Sealy  and  the  cook,  and 
\ then  younger  girls,  each  kissing  her  hand  and  each 
'.receiving  a smile  and  pleasant  word  of  recognition 
"n  return.  And  then,  after  the  women,  the  men  with 
months  grinning  from  ear  to  ear  pressed  forward  to 
/claim  their  smile  and  to  shake  the  pretty  hand.  I 
j alone  stood  back;  it  would  have  been  a sacrilege  for 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


me  to  have  grasped  that  dainty  hand  as  those  others 
grasped  it,  and  feigning  some  neglected  duty  in  the 
house  I hurried  away  to  avoid  her  notice. 


4 i She’s  des  as  purty  as  ebber,  an’  de  sweetes’  young 
mistus  dat  ebber  war.  I wants  ter  tote  her,  ’caze  she ’s 
des  too  sweet  ter  walk  upon  de  ground”  blubbered 
Aunt  Dilsey,  as  she  brushed  by  me  on  her  way  back 
to  her  dairy,  over  which  she  queened  it  with  a regal 
swa  y. 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  they  all  adored  their  lovely 
young  mistress  as  much  for  her  gentle  sweetness  as  for 
her  glorious  beauty. 

The  radiance  of  her  presence  affected  me  strangely, 
inexplicably,  at  that  time.  In  the  glamour  which  she 
cast  upon  me  then  she  seemed  an  angel  from  heaven. 

Its  spell  has  never  fallen  from  me;  it  rests  upon  me 
now.  Death  may  not  deprive  me  of  its  ineffable  in-  / 
fluence.  Yet  I had  deserted  that  presence  almost  in  / 
fear.  An  undefinable  dread  seemed  to  oppress  me.  Un~  : 
consciously  I went  upstairs  and  shut  myself  in  my  little 
room.  I tried  to  think.  Out  of  a tangle  of  thoughts 
came  a knowledge  that  I was  standing  on  the  eve  of 
the  greatest  change  in  my  life.  I felt  a premonition 
of  its  nearness — a shadow,  as  it  were, , of  the  yet  to 
come  cast  before.  For  days  the  shadow  lay  uneasily 
upon  me. 


But  bye  and  bye,  it  grew  bright  again,  and  my  spirit, 
naturally  buoyant  and  light,  was  able  to  throw  the  dis- 
quieting shadow  aside  and  I went  about  my  work  as 
blithely  as  ever.  I saw  the  young  mistress  every  day 
and  though  it  lost  nothing  of  its  radiance  I learned  to 
look  upon  her  surprising  beauty  with  something  like 
rational  composure.  In  a blind,  unmeaning  way  I wor- 
shiped her  as  one  worships  the  angels.  I could  have 
kissed  the  very  ground  she  walked  upon,  but  wouk 
no  more  have  dared  the  wish  to  touch  her  hand,  or  eve- 
the  hem  of  her  garments,  than  I would  have  thought 
to  violate  the  sanctity  of  a vestal  shrine. 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


e i 


As  yet  she  had  not  noticed  me,  not  even  with  a lock 
of  inquiry,  and  not  until  a week  had  passed,  when  her 
mother  called  me  into  her  presence  to  commend  me  to 
her  service,  did  I catch  the  glance  of  her  eye. 

“Virginia,  my  darling, ” said  the  mistress,  “this  is 
Paul,  the  new  negro  we  brought  from  the  plantation  to 
take  the  place  of  Tom.  Tow  grew  to  be  quite  impudent 
and  we  had  to  send  him  away.  I don’t  think  we  wil< 
have  any  such  trouble  with  Paul,  whom  I have  found 
to  be  quite  a smart  and  handy  fellow,  not  at  all  im- 
pudent or  saucy.  He  waits  upon  me  and  will  wait  upon 
you.  And  you,  Paul,  this  is  your  Miss  Virginia.  She 
complains  that  her  fires  are  neglected.  Come,  you 
must  not  let  that  occur  again.  It  is  quite  cool  enough 
for  fires  now  and  you  must  see  to  it  that  a bright, 
warm  one  is  always  in  her  room.  Do  you  mind?” 
“Yes;  Ma’am.” 

“And  besides  the  fire,  you  must  see  to  her  windows. 
Every  night  when  she  goes  to  bed  you  must  see  that  the 
windows  are  secure  and  the  fire  well  banked.  You  must 
wait  upon  her  just  as  you  do  me.  Paul  sleeps  in  the 
little  cuddy  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  Tom’s  old  den,  so 
if  you  want  anything  in  the  night  make  Sally  call 
him.” 

I tried  to  stammer  my  profession  of  a grateful  serv- 
ice, but  was  somehow  too  confused  to  make  myself 
understood,  and  the  young  mistress,  evidently  amused 
at  my  bashfulness,  smilingly  spoke : 

“Oh,  yes,  I am  sure  that  you  did  not  mean  to  neglect 
me,  and  now  that  you  know  your  business  I think  we 
can  get  on  nicely  together.” 

“You  have  a latch  key  to  her  room,  so  there  will  be 
no  need  of  you  disturbing  her  when  you  go  in,”  con- 
tinued her  mother.  “And  now  she  wants  you  to  move 
the  piano  from  the  window  across  to  the  wall,  and  you 
had  as  well  make  a fire  in  there  now.  Virginia  maj 
wish  to  play  this  evening.” 

Glad  of  the  happy  privilege  of  serving  her,  I salamrd 


38 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


myself  out-cutting,  I fear,  a somewhat  awkward  figure 

and  went  to  move  the  piano  and  to  kindie  a glow  g 

fire  upon  the  broad  open  hearth. 

That  evening  while  the  family  were  at  supper  I soft- 
ly stole  to  her  room  to  kindle  the  fire  .here.  IJelt 
reverential  -awe  as  I stepped  across  the  threshold  and 
stood  in  that  sacred  chamber,  that  seemed  redolen.  of 
virgin  sweetness  and  maiden  purity.  With  a positive 
dread  of  being  caught  I piled  on  the  wood  and  kindled, 
it  and  slunk  out  as  stealthily  as  I had  entered.  After 
supper  the  family  repaired  to  the  music  room.  Pre- 
tending to  inquire  if  the  piano  had  been'  properly 
Placed  hut  really  to  listen  to  the  sweet  gush  of : bird- 
like  song  that  trilled  from  the  silvery  throat  of  the 

qin^er  X vsu  cured  to  the  door*  ^ 

“What  is  it  you  want?”  asked  the  mistress,  surprised 

*it  my  presumptuous  intrusion.  _ n , 

“If  you  please,  ma’am,  I came  to  see  if  I had  placed 

+Vip  niano  ri°ht  ” I meekly  stammered. 

“ Yes,  it  is  right,  just  where  I wanted  it,”  interposed 
the  young  mistress  very  graciously.  It  is  very  well, 

^With*1  ^choking  sense  of  my  slavish  degradation  and 
the  still  more  wretched  taint  of  race,  I crept  away. 
Such  music  was  not  intended  for  such  ears  as  mine. 

The  next  morning  after  I had  made  the  fires  m the 
rooms  below,  I again  went  up  to  make  hers.  With  a 
trepidation  as  nervous  as  before,  I softly  opened  the 
door  and  tiptoed  in.  She  was  sweetly  sleeping,  and  o 
the  little  trundle  bed  at  the  foot  of  ner  own,  Sally,  her 

maid,  lay  sprawled  out  in  somnolent  ob  avion.  - 

As  softly  as  I could,  I put  down  my  burden  of  wood 
and  opened  the  slumbering  embers  to  kind. e them  into 
a blase.  I hardly  dared  to  look  around,  but  while  wait- 
ing for  the  flames  to  ignite,  I stole  a glance  over  the 
room.  It  was-  not  actually  littered,  hut  was  recklessly 
tumbled  with  a confusion  of  mysterious  and  unmen- 
tionable feminine  'apparel.  A skirt  here,  a corset  there, 
and  a little  circular  nest  of  snowy  crinoline  yonder. 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


li 

such  a confusion  as  can  only  be  accounted  for  by  the 
supposition  that  the  sleepy-eyed  maid  had  gone  to  bed 
first,  leaving  the  easy-natured  young  mistress  to  disrobe 
herself.  On  the  rug,  close  to  where  I knelt,  was  her 
dainty  little  boot.  It  was  bold,  almost  madness,  but 
I could  not  resist  the  wild  impulse  to  take  it  to  my 
breast  and  then  to  kiss  the  unconscious  sole.  Then  1 
softly,  tenderly  put  it  down  and  giving  the  fire  one 
more  assuring  poke,  I arose  and  turned  to  creep  from 
the  room.  My  eyes  unconsciously  sought  her  couch  and 
I had  to  pause  a moment,  holding  my  breath  in  a pos- 
itive awe  as  I looked  upon  the  slumbering  beauty.  One 
fair  arm  had  escaped  from  the  coverlet  and  was  lying 
in  a graceful  sweep  by  her  side;  the  other  was  resting 
across  her  breast.  Her  hair,  unloosed  from  its  coil,  lay 
like  a ripple  of  sunshine  over  her  pillow ; her  rich,  ripe 
lips  were  parted  just  enough  to  reveal  the  pearly  teeth 
within,  while  in  gentle,  but  strong  and  healthy  respira- 
tion, her  snowy  bosom  rose  and  fell. 

I have  seen  her  often  since ; in  fancy  I see  her  still, 
and  every  night  of  my  solitary  life  she  comes  to  me  in 
my  dreams,  always  beautiful,  always  lovely,  but  never 
so  beautiful,  never  so  sweet  and  inexpressibly  fair  as 
she  appeared  just  as  she  lay  before  me  that  morning  in 
the  perfection  of  maidenly  beauty  and  maidenly  purity. 
Whispering  a blessing  upon  her  sweet  life  I tiptoed 
out  again  and  softly  closing  the  door,  went  down  to  my 
ungrateful  work. 

All  day  long  I thought  of  that  beautiful  picture,  and 
with  the  thought  would  come  an  uneasy  consciousness 
of  unfaith,  of  treachery  and  meanness.  I had  no  right 
to  look  upon  such  innocent  loveliness,  albeit,  the  glance 
I stole  was  one  of  reverential,  almost  holy  adoration. 
There  was  no  guilt  in  the  look,  no  unholy  desire,  and  I 
would  hate  cut  my  throat  rather  than  to  have  wronged 
her  with  an  impure  thought.  But  I would  not  look 
again.  No,  no,  though  heaven  itself  should  open  to  my 
vision  I must  close  my  eyes  to  its  beauties.  Negro 
slave,  pariah  that  I was,  such  loveliness  was  not  for 


40 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


me,  and  firm  in  this  resolve  I dropped  my  eyes  the  next 
morning  as  I went  in  to  make  the  fire,  and  hurriedly 
striking  the  kindling  I quickly  stole  from  the  room 
without  a glance  either  to  the  right  or  to  the  left. 

But  my  overcaution  confounded  me,  for  in  my  haste 
to  get  away  from  the  enchanting  presence  I did  not  suf- 
ficiently kindle  the  fire  and  instead  of  blazing  up  in 
grateful  warmth  it  set  up  such  an  asthmatic  sputtering 
as  to  call  for  a remedy,  and  I had  scarcely  finished  the 
work  of  polishing  my  master’s  boots  when  Sally  came 
with  a lazy  irritation  to  berate  me  for  my  dereliction. 

“Say,  yo’  niggah  yo„  Miss  Jinny  ses  fer  yo’  ter  come 
back  an’  fix  her  fire.  Wot  sort  ob  a moke  is  yo’  enny- 
how,  ter  run  off  like  dat  an’  ’spect  de  fire  ter  kindle 
itse’f  ?” 

In  dire  dismay  I ran  to  the  wood-shed  and  gathering 
an  armful  of  resinous  splinters,  I hurried  back  to  make 
amends  for  my  laches.  Thinking  that  she  was  now  up 
and  dressed  or  at  least  awake  I gave  a warning  knock 
at  the  door. 

‘ 4 Come  in,  ’ ’ was  the  response. 

Boldly  I entered  when,  heavens,  what  a sight ! Diana 
stepping  from  her  bath  was  never  more  glorious,  as 
with  her  discarded  night-robe  at  her  feet  she  stood  bare 
armed  and  bare  kneed,  with  only  the  loosely  falling 
folds  of  her  chemise  to  drape  her  queenly  form.  Abashed 
at  the  unexpected  sight  I drew  back  with  a start  and  a 
gasp,  when  with  the  naive  innocence  of  a child,  she 
said : 

“Ah,  it  is  you!  you  have  come  to  kindle  the  fire,  but 
you  see  it  has  concluded  to  burn  of  itself.  You  really 
needed  not  to  come.  However,  a few  splinters  will  not 
hurt  it.” 

“I  am  very  sorry,”  I stammered  as  best  I could  as  I 
stooped  and  applied  the  fuel,  and  then  with  averted 
eyes  I turned  to  go. 

“Stay  a moment.  You  have  forgotten  my  boots,  I 
shall  expect  you  to  keep  them  clean  for  me,”  she  or- 
dered, pointing  with  her  foot  to  the  boots. 


* 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE.  41 

With  a desperate  dive  I gathered  them  up  and  hur- 
ried out  thoroughly  shocked,  but  more  angry  with  my- 
self for  my  intrusion  than  with  her  for  the  naivete  with 
which  she  received  me. 

In  order  to  give  her  maid  sufficient  time  to  complete 
her  toilet  I loitered  over  my  work  and  then  waited  at 
her  door  a little  while  before  knocking  again. 

“Wot  yer  keep  dat  knockin’  foh,  why  doan  yo’  come 
in,  ’ ’ said  Sally  in  disgust  at  my  timidity,  as  she  opened 
the  door.  “Yo’  needn’t  be  skeert,  nobody’s  gwine  ter 
feite  yer.” 

Thus  assured  I stepped  in  to  receive  a still  more  em- 
barrassing shock,  for  there  on  a low  ottoman  near  the 
hearth,  directly  facing  me,  with  a little  cloud  of  fleecy 
drapery  in  her  lap,  the  young  mistress  sat  drawing  on 
her  stockings. 

Without  lowering  her  skirts  or  drooping  her  knees 
she  looked  me  innocently  in  the  face  and  with  a smile  of 
kindness  she  said,  reaching  out  her  hand  for  the  boots : 

“Yes,  you  have  brought  my  boots,  they  are  really 
nice.  I think  I must  pay  you  for  them.  Sally,  look  in 
my  drawer  and  give  him  a dollar.” 

“Oh,  no,  please  not;  I do  not  wish  pay,”  I protested, 
drawing  back. 

“Yes,  take  it,  heah  ’tis,”  said  Sally,  holding  out  the 
coin. 

“Yes,  you  can  have  it;  take  it,”  insisted  the  young 
mistress. 

4 4 1 — I had  rather  not,  ’ ’ I stammered.  4 4 1 do  not  need 
it.  I had  rather  always  serve  you  for  nothing.  I do 
not  ask  pay.” 

4 4 Den  I’ll  hab  if,”  said  Sally,  closing  her  fingers 
upon  it. 

4 4 If  the  young  mistress  is  willing,”  I said,  unwilling 
to  accept  the  humiliating  gratuity. 

4 4 Thankee,  sir,  ’ ’ cut  in  Sally,  anxious  to  close  the  of- 
fer. 

4 4 Ah,  I see;  sweethearts  already,”  laughed  the 
lady.  4 4 That  is  charging.  But  you  must  be  on  your 


42 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


guard  against  Sally.  She’s  a great  flirt  and  will  jilt 
you  sure.  There  is  no  telling  the  conquests  she  has 
made  or  the  hearts  she  has  broken,  ’ ’ and  fastening  the 
jewelled  clasp  of  her  garter  she  gave  the  lapful  of  laces 
and  flounces  a deft  little  shake  that  tumbled  them 
above  her  feet  as  she  straightened  down  her  knees. 
4 i Here,  Sally,  put  them  on  for  me,  and  you,”  nodding 
to  me,  “may  go.”  Mentally  thanking  her  for  not  re- 
quiring me  to  draw  on  and  lace  her  boots  for  her,  I 
backed  out  too  sadly  upset  to  think  of  closing  the  door 
after  me. 

I went  to  my  little  cell  and  sat  for  a while,  pondering 
in  a sad  perplexity.  I wondered  what  to  do,  whether  to 
try  to  blind  my  eyes  to  all  that  was  beautiful  and  rav- 
ishing to  see,  to  steel  my  senses  against  all  that  was  in- 
toxicating and  sweet,  or  go  at  once  honestly  to  my 
master  and  implore  him  for  the  love  of  Christ  to  send 
me  away,  either  back  to  the  old  life  on  the  plantation, 
or  else  to  sell  me  to  the  vilest  “nigger-trader”  in  the 
land  and  let  him  ship  me  off  to  the  swamps  of  the 
Mississippi.  I could  not  decide  and  so  went  drifting 


CHAPTER  IV. 


AN  UNEXPECTED  COMMAND. 


Drifting  on;  ah,  helpless  as  a cockle-shell  on  the 
broad  bosom  of  the  Atlantic,  I was  drifting  I knew 
not  where.  All  that  I could  do  was  to  shut  my  eyes, 
in  a dumb  endurance,  and  let  the  future  take  care  of  it- 
self. I knew  then  as  I know  now,  what  it  was  that  had 
come  over  me,  what  the  shadow  meant  that  had  so  mys- 
teriously gathered  around  me.  I loved  Virginia  Cho- 
teaux,  my  own  cousin  by  blood,  my  queenly  mistress  by 
fate.  Loved  her  madly,  blindly,  despairingly,  but  not 
sinfully,  nor  selfishly.  I had  never  seen  the  moment 
since  I first  knew  her  that  I would  not  have  willingly 
died  to  save  her.  Ah,  what  folly,  what  a wild  infatua- 
tion ! But  oh,  how  sweet,  how  thrilling,  how  exalting 
and  ennobling ! 

As  electricity  is  said  to  be  the  soul  of  all  nature,  so  is 
love  the  soul  of  human  existence ; and  he  who  has  not 
felt  its  vivifying  power,  its  wild  throbbings  of  hope  and 
its  despairing  doubts,  knows  nothing  of  life,  nothing 
of  the  essence,  the  spirit,  the  heavenly  joy  of  living; 
and  wretched  as  I then  was,  miserable,  degraded,  I 
yet  had  my  flashes  of  joy,  and  my  bitterest  hell  was 
at  the  same  time  my  sweetest  heaven. 

I went  out  from  her  presence  that  morning  humbled 
and  degraded,  feeling  the  despised  reality  of  my  posi- 
tion as  I had  never  felt  it  before.  I was  not  only  a 
negro  slave,  but  a stot,  less  than  a man,  and  hardly  a 
beast.  I knew  very  well  in  my  secret  conscience,  that 
it  was  not  for  a lack  of  maidenly  modesty  she  so  un- 
blushingly  exposed  her  person  to  my  unforbidden 
sight.  I well  understood  that  it  was  no  coquettish 

43 


44 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 

trick  of  froward  maidenhood  to  reveal  the  hidden 
charms  a Venus  might  well  have  been  pardoned  for 
wishing  to  display,  that  it  was  not  to  fire  my  blood 
and  madden  my  brain  she  stood  so  naively  before  me 
with  nothing  but  a gauzy  tissue  of  lace  to  cover  the 
snowy  breasts  which  no  man  of  mortal  flesh  and  blood 
could  have  looked  unmoved  upon.  I knew  that  it  was 
not  to  tantalize  a despairing  desire  she  sat  upon  that 
low  ottoman,  unconsciously  caressing  with  her  jewelled 
fingers  the  pinky  dimples  in  a knee  that  would  have 
been  a heaven  to  kiss.  No,  no,  not  for  any  of  these,  but 
for  the  want  of  a decent  respect  for  me.  Had  she  re- 
garded me  as  anything  better  than  a soulless  brute, 
had  she  esteemed  me  as  a man,  endowed  with  the  sense 
and  feelings  of  a man,  she  would  have  screamed  with 
affright  and  driven  me  with  furious  wrath  from  the 
room. 

But  I was  not  a man,  only  an  animated  machine,  a 
bloodless,  soulless  automaton  to  fetch  and  carry,  with 
eyes  to  see  not  and  nerves  to  feel  not.  This  was  my 
despised  status— despicable,  degraded,  emasculated — 
and  wretchedly  did  I realize  it. 

And  thus  appreciating  my  utter  insignificance  I 
thought  seriously  of  going  to  my  master,  and  to  beg  him 
to  send  me  away.  I had  actually  started,  when  there 
came  over  my  soul  a dark  and  desolate  lonesomeness 
that,  sick  with  my  burden  of  gloomy  despair,  I had  to 
stop.  I could  not  conceive  the  possibility  of  living  away 
from  her,  the  light  of  my  life,  the  sun  of  my  soul.  No, 
no,  I could  not  go,  I would  stay;  like  the  poor,  silly 
moth  fluttering  around  the  candle.  I could  not  tear 
myself  away.  And  what  need  of  going,  thus  blindly,  I 
reasoned.  Why  not  stay  and  back  in  the  sunlight  as 
long  as  I could,  only  taking  care  to  keep  myself  at  a 
distance.  I should  avoid  her  presence  as  much  as  pos- 
sible and  never  again  permit  myself  to  see  aught  of 
her  charms  that  a man,  a white  man,  her  equal  in  caste, 
might  not  with  chaste  propriety  look  upon.  And  thus 
^solved  and  feeling  strengthened  by  the  honest  resolu- 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


45 


tion,  I went  about  my  daily  work  avoiding  her  presence 
and  her  room  as  much  as  I could  do  without  a derelic- 
tion of  duty,  taking  care  that  no  more  lapses  in  kindling 
her  fire  and  polishing  her  boots  might  occur  again.  To 
this  end  I made  her  fire  the  first  in  the  morning  while 
she  was  still  asleep,  heaping  high  the  wood  and  always 
seeing  that  it  was  thoroughly  ignited  before  leaving 
it;  and  in  the  matter  of  boots,  I arranged  with  Sally 
to  leave  them  without  at  the  door,  compensating  her 
for  her  trouble  by  keeping  her  own  broad-bottomed, 
flat-toed  balmorals  cleansed  and  polished. 

And  so  the  weeks  sped  on,  silently  slipping  away  and 
at  length  Christmas,  with  its  rollicking  holidays,  came, 
bringing  with  it  a gay  throng  of  visitors,  young  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  aristocratic  friends  and  neighbors,  until 
the  house,  large  as  it  was,  was  full. 

Their  coming  brought  additional  work  for  me,  and  in 
keeping  the  dozen  fires  burning,  polishing  their  boots 
and  doing  odd  little  services,  I found  nearly  all  my 
time  occupied. 

It  was  a gay  season  and  a vivacious  party,  and  most 
enthusiastically  did  they  enjoy  it,  abandoning  them- 
selves to  the  fullest  and  finest  measure  of  social  pleas- 
ure— croquet,  tennis,  riding,  walking  and  rambling 
through  the  woods  in  sunny  weather  and  dancing,  bil- 
liards, wThist,  readings,  recitations  and  tableaux-vivants 
in-doors.  It  was  one  continued  round  of  hilarious  fun 
and  frolick.  But  none  of  it  was  for  me.  The  other 
slaves  enjoyed  it,  something  like  the  hounds  enjoy  the 
excitement  of  the  chase,  grinning  in  jolly  delight  at 
the  universal  hilarity.  But  I felt  too  keenly  the  degra- 
dation of  my  place  and  like  a human  machine,  deaf 
and  dumb  and  blind,  I had  to  move  through  it  all. 

There  were  fifteen  young  ladies,  beautiful  as  so  many 
houris,  all  under  my  care  and  sight.  The  privacy  of 
their  chambers  had  no  secrets  from  me.  They  would 
dress  and  undress  before  me  with  naive  impunity,  stand- 
ing in  charming  dishabille,  or  reclining  in  voluptuous 
ease,  blabbing  of  their  sweethearts,  telling  their  piquant 


46 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


little  stories  and  shrugging  their  pretty  shoulders  at  the 
lubricious  witticisms  that  would  sometimes  slip  out 
from  the  more  hoiden  and  unguarded  lips  while  I would 
move  about,  in  and  out,  as  free  to  see  and  to  hear  as 
the  sniggering  maids  who  unloosed  their  zones  and 
laced  their  boots  for  them. 

There  was  one  chamber,  however,  that  I always  en- 
tered with  reverential  tread  and  eyes  drooped,  one  fair 
presence  sacred  from  my  profane  gaze,  but  as  for  the 
others,  n’importe,  I cared  almost  as  little  for  them  as 
they  cared  for  me,  and  would  scarcely  pause  to  look 
twice  upon  a charm  which  would  have  held  the  breath 
of  almost  any  other  man.  The  great  absorbing  devo- 
tion that  filled  my  soul  left  no  room  for  anything  else. 
Not  an  inconstant,  nor  incontinent  thought  ever  came. 

Among  the  gayest  of  the  young  men  was  my  young 
master,  Victor,  home  from  the  university  to  spend 
the  Christmas  holidays.  Hs  was  a tall,  handsome  young 
fellow  with  the  old  Choteaux  form  and  features.  Had 
I not  been  so  black  or  had  anyone,  even  his  father,  sus- 
pected the  consanguinity,  the  resemblance  between  us 
would  have  been  noticed,  but  as  it  was,  the  despised 
negro  was  nothing,  while  he,  the  young  master,  was 
a prince.  I remember  once  for  a moment,  gritting 
my  teeth  over  the  seeming  injustice,  but  it  was  only 
for  a moment.  My  better  sense  could  not  locate  the 
blame,  and  he,  the  young  man,  was  really  too  good 
natured,  too  frank  and  buoyant  for  me  to  harbor  an 
envious  resentment  against.  As  his  rooms  were  in 
the  opposite  wing  of  the  house  and  my  duties  never 
carried  me  there,  we  saw  but  little  of  each  other,  only 
once  or  twice  he  noticed  me,  and  then  it  was  with 
such  a kindly  smile  that  I could  not  choose  but  warm 
to  him.  He  was  a general  favorite  with  the  gentlemen, 
and,  of  course,  immensely  popular  with  the  young 
ladies.  It  was  a little  amusing  to  watch  the  pretty 
eyes  they  made  at  him.  The  pretty  eyes,  however, 
were  harmless,  or,  at  least,  immaterial,  for  accord- 
ing to  the  old  French  custom,  his  parents  had  already 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


47 


arranged  for  a marriage  with  his  pretty  cousin,  Isaura 
Noltrieb,  and  they  only  waited  the  completion  of  his 
studies  to  settle  down  to  domestic  felicity. 

There  was  one  thing  I noticed,  not  without  a soup- 
con  of  disgust,  and  that  was  the  jealous  spitefulness 
of  the  mulatto  girl,  Sally,  toward  his  betrothed.  Then 
I recalled  the  warning  Joe  had  given  me  the  year  be- 
fore, and  I laughed  to  think  how  little  the  warning 
was  needed.  No,  no,  let  him,  the  proud  young  master, 
the  man  of  sensibility  and  refinement,  the  social  prince, 
condescend  to  a liason  with  such  a creature  if  he 
choosed,  but  for  me,  negro,  stot  though  I be,  I held 
myself  high  above  such  a debauching  connection. 

But  time  on  pleasure  wings  flits  by,  far  more  rapid- 
ly than  the  sober-paced,  sorrow-laden  moments,  and 
soon  the  holidays  were  over  and  gone.  In  little  par- 
ties, like  swallows  taking  their  flight,  the  guests  de- 
parted, and  now  the  household  sank  back  into  its  nor- 
mal state  of  placid  content.  A month  went  by  without 
any  change  in  the  old  routine  of  humdrum  life,  ex- 
cept to  my  disgust,  I found  Sally  trying  her  libidinous 
wiles  upon  me.  As  for  the  young  mistress,  she  was 
the  same — artless,  gentle,  kind — with  always  a smile 
for  all  who  came  anear.  If  she  had  ever  noticed  my 
studious  avoidance  of  her  presence  in  her  chamber, 
she  did  not  evince  the  fact  by  any  change  of  manner. 
I could  sometimes  fancy,  however,  that  she  did  feel 
it,  whether  consciously  or  not,  as  she  never  gave  me 
the  slightest  cause  to  criticise  her  modesty.  I was  a 
little  surprised,  though,  one  morning  in  the  early 
spring,  as  I was  turning  from  the  hearth  after  having 
kindled  the  fire,  to  hear  her  call: 

“Stay  a minute,  Paul,  I wish  to  talk  to  you,”  she 
- said  in  a tone,  of  command. 

I turned  an  inquiring  look,  but  the  drapery  of  the 
bed  was  drawn  well  under  her  chin,  and  there  was 
no  impropriety  in  her  position,  although  she  looked 
very  fair  and  very  sweet  as  she  lay  with  her  head 
slightly  raised  on  her  pillow. 


48 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


“Yes,  miss/’  I answered,  respectfully,  dropping  my 
glance  to  my  feet. 

“I  wish  to  speak  to  you  about  Sally.” 

“ About  Sally?”  I interrupted,  wonderingly. 

“Yes,  I will  tell  you — you  must  not  interrupt  me 
when  I am  speaking.  Sally,  you  know,  belongs  to  me, 
and  papa  I am  sure,  will  give  you  to  me,  too.  Now, 
I think  it  best  when  girls  get  as  Sally  is,  that  they 
marry.  I do  not  believe  in  this  loose  way  you  negroes 
have  of  living.  I have  noticed  you,  and  think  Sally 
and  you  would  make  a good  match.  She  has  told  me 
of  her  trouble,  and  by  marrying  at  once  the  trouble 
can  be  cured.  She,  like  a good  girl,  is  anxious  to 
marry  you,  and  will,  I am  sure,  be  true  to  you,  at 
least,  so  far  as  any  negro  is  concerned.  Sally  is  really 
a good  girl  and  not  bad  looking.  You  two  will  make 
a fine-looking  couple,  and  as  long  as  I live  I shall  see 
that  neither  you  nor  your  children,  shall  ever  be  sold 
away  from  one  another.  Nov/  what  say  you?” 

I was  too  dumb  with  indignant  contempt  and  disgust 
to  answer  and  stood  scowling. 

‘ 4 Do  you  understand  me?”  she  commanded  with  im- 
perious emphasis. 

“Yes,  Miss  Virginia,  X understand  you  only  too  well, 
and  am  sorry  that  I can  not  obey  your  wishes,”  I 
answered,  controlling  my  voice  as  well  as  I could. 

“X  will  make  it  a command,”  she  interrupted  a little 
hotly. 

“X  hope  not;  oh,  please  do  not.” 

“Why?” 

“Because,  glad,  willing  as  I am  to  serve  you  always 
and  to  obey  you  in  all  things,  I should  have  to  refuse 
in  this.  I cannot  marry  this  woman.” 

“Why  not?”  flushing  with  anger  at  my  presump- 
tion. 

“Because,  slave  though  I be,  I am  not  of  her  kind. 
X hold  myself  high  above  her  and  such  as  she.” 

“Humph!  you  should  have  thought  of  that  before. 
You  owe  it  to  her  now  to  marry  her,  and  undo  the 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


49 


wrong  you  have  done  her,  so  far  as  marrying  can  undo 
such  a naughty  wrong/  ’ 

“I  have  done  her  no  wrong.  Before  that  God  who 
made  us  both,  and  who  will  judge  us  both,  I have  never 
touched  nor  even  thought  of  stooping  to  that  woman,” 
I said  with  a solemnity  of  voice  and  manner  that 
touched  her. 

“Go,  send  her  to  me,  and  when  I have  dressed  you 
come,  too.  I must  have  you  face  to  face/’ 

“I  am  ready  to  face  high  heaven  itself,”  I boldly 
declared,  as  I hurried  out  to  find  the  girl. 

I had  but  little  ways  to  go,  but  found  her  in  the 
hall  a poor,  abject  creature,  shame-faced  and  guilty. 

“Your  mistress  wants  you.  You  know  what  for. 
Make  haste  to  dress  her  and  then  let  me  know;  I will 
be  here,”  I sternly  ordered,  taking  my  stand  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs. 

In  a surprisingly  short  time  the  door  was  opened  and 
Sally  called  me  to  come. 

Drawing  myself  up  to  my  proudest  height,  I went 
in.  The  young  mistress  was  dressed  and  sitting  in  her 
rocker  with  the  gravity  and  dignity  of  a queen.  Sally 
was  standing,  with  head  bowed  down,  behind  her. 

“Now,  Sally,  stand  here  before  me,  and  look  me 
straight  in  the  face,  while  you  tell  me  the  truth,  ’ ’ com- 
manded the  queen. 

The  girl  moved  forward,  but  sinking  on  her  knees 
and  piteously  holding  up  her  hands,  she  cried: 

“Oh,  Miss  Jinny,  please  do — doan  be  too  hahd  on 
me  and  sell  me  away,  kase  I didn’t  go  ter  do  it.  I 
’elare  ter  gracious  I couldn’t  help  it.  It  warn’t  my 
fault  an’  I couldn’t  help  myse’f/’ 

“You  say  it  was  this  fellow’s  doing?”  sternly  in- 
terrupted the  young  mistress. 

“Yes ’em,  I did  so,  but — but  it  warn’t.  I — I’ll  tell 
yer  de  trp.fi:  now,  Miss  Jinny,  it  warn’t  Paul;  least- 
wise I didn’t  know  it  zif  it  war,  but  it  war  Marse — 
Marse  Vice — Vic — Victor  as  made  me,”  stammered 
the  poor  girl. 


50 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


“Victor!  my  brother?”  with  the  crimson  glow  suf- 
fusing her  cheek. 

“Yes,  yes ’em.  Long  time  ago  when  we  war  chil- 
luns  togedder  an’  den  when  he  corned  back  home  dis 
las’  time,  an’  I’ll  nevah  do  de  like  any  moah.  I’se 
willin’  ter  marry  Paul  heah,  an’  ole  mistus  will  nevah 
know.  ’ ’ 

“No,  hush' up!  Leave  the  room  before  I strike 
you.” 

The  girl  almost  crawled  from  the  room. 

“And  you,  Paul,  I am  very  sorry  that  I accused 
you  so  wrongfully.  I must  ask  your  pardon.  I did 
not  think  it  was  such  a really  bad  thing  for  you  to 
do,  but  I am  sorry  that  I wronged  you  at  all.  Here, 
you  may  kiss  my  hand,  and  then  you  can  go.” 

There  is  an  inate  gallantry  in  an  honest  adoration, 
and  with  all  the  chivalry  of  a knight,  I dropped  on 
my  knees  and  respectfully  raised  the  precious  hand 
to  my  lips. 

“I  don’t  think,”  she  called  after  me,  as  I opened 
the  door,  “that  I need  to  tell  you  to  say  nothing  of 
this  affair.” 

“Oh,  no,  miss;  I could  not  think  of  such  an  indis- 
cretion, ’ ’ I answered. 

“I  am  sorry  for  the  poor  girl.  If  you  see  her,  tell 
her  to  come  back.  It  is  not  for  me  to  judge,  nor  to 
punish,  ’ ’ she  said,  and  I thought  it  a sweet  humility  as 
I went  away  to  send  the  girl  back. 

That  afternoon  I was  summoned  to  the  family  sitting 
room.  With  a slight  trepidation  I presented  myself. 

“What  do  you  know  about  horses?  Did  you  ever 
handle  one?”  asked  the  master. 

“Oh,  yes,  sir.  I used  to  break  all  the  colts  on  the 
plantation,”  I answered  a little  proudly. 

“Very  well;  do  you  think  I could  trust  you  to  at- 
tend your  young  mistress  on  her  rides,  to  groom  her 
horse  and  see  to  her  safety.” 

“I  hope  so,  sir.” 

“Very  good ; we  will  try  you.  Her  old  groom,  Louis, 


THE  STOEY  OP  A SLAVE. 


51 


is  getting  too  fond  of  his  toddy— the  rascal  is  tipsy 
half  his  time — and  it  is  no  longer  safe  to  trust  your 
Miss  Virginia  with  him.  You  will  have  to  look  after 
her  bridles  and  girths.  She  rides  a spirited  mare  and 
you  must  never  let  her  mount  without  seeing  that 
everything  is  secure  and  properly  adjusted.  If  you 
were  to  let  her  get  hurt,  I should  hang  you.  Do  you 
understand  me?” 

“Yes,  sir,  and  will  take  care  that  no  harm  shall 
come  to  her.” 

“Yes;  I think  I can  trust  you.  What  say  you, 
Pauline  ? ” . 

“Oh,  yes,  certainly;  she  will  be  safe  with  Paul.  I 
wanted  to  give  him  to  her  before  Christmas,  but  she 
begged  so  hard  for  Louis  that  I let  her  keep  him.  It 
is  the  rascal’s  own  fault,  however,  that  he  loses  his 
place,  and  Virginia  wants  Paul,”  answered  the  mistress, 
and  thus  taking  the  matter  altogether  in  her  own 
hands,  as  she  invariably  did,  she  turned  to  me. 

“You,  Paul,  will  be  relieved  from  making  the  fires 
in  the  evening.  All  your  afternoons  will  be  devoted 
to  your  Miss  Virginia.  You  will  take  Louis’  horse 
and  will  have  to  look  after  it  and  Dido.  You  must 
hold  yourself  always  ready  and  absolutely  at  her  serv- 
ice. So  go,  now,  and  tell  Joe  to  give  you  Louis’  horse 
and  you  go  to  Mr.  Barclay’s  and  fit  yourself  with  a 
pair  of  top  boots.  That  is  all  we  wanted  with  you. 
Go!” 

And  thus  one  more  leaf  in  the  book  of  my  destiny 
was  turned. 


CHAPTER  V. 


THE  LASH  OP  THE  MISTRESS. 


The  next  day  I entered  upon  my  new  service,  that 
of  groom  to  my  young  mistress.  Perhaps,  it  was  the 
genial  balm  of  the  bright  afternoon  that  tempted  her 
to  ride,  or  mayhap  it  was  to  test  the  capacity  of  her 
new  groom.  Be  which  it  may,  immediately  after  din- 
ner I was  ordered  to  fetch  out  the  horses. 

Declining,  with  a silent  shake  of  the  head  and  a 
repellant  wave  of  the  hand,  my  awkward  offer  to  help 
she  lightly  sprang  to  the  saddle  and  dashed  away, 
leaving  me  to  mount  in  haste  and  gallop  on  after.  She 
rode  a splendid  animal,  a thoroughbred  mare,  high 
strung  and  spirited,  too  spirited  for  an  ordinary 
woman;  but  she  was  a magnificent  rider,  and  with  a 
cool  head  and  steady  nerve,  always  keeping  her  reins 
well  in  hand,  she  managed,  without  any  great  trouble, 
to  control  her.  My  own  mount  was  a lumbering  cob, 
better  fitted  for  the  plow  than  the  saddle,  but,  by 
lifting  his  head  with  my  bridle  arm  and  a vigorous 
exercise  of  my  heels,  I contrived  to  keep  in  a helping 
distance  of  my  charge. 

For  more  than  a mile,  through  a stretch  of  sunny 
lane,  she  led  the  way,  without  so  much  as  a glance 
back  to  me,  and  then,  as  if  in  sudden  thought  for 
the  laborious  work  of  my  floundering  hack,  she  drew 
rein  and  allowed  me  to  approach  in  regulation  dis- 
tance. 

In  order  to  catch  the  sunshine,  she  turned  her  way 
through  the  winding  lanes,  until  she  had  traversed  the 
entire  plantation  and  then  coming  to  a halt,  she  ordered 
me  to  dismount  and  let  down  the  fence,  making  » 

52 


t 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


53 


•way  for  a canter  through  the  open  fields  back  home. 

It  was  a spirited  ride,  fully  ten  miles,  in  and  out, 
before  we  reached  the  door,  just  as  the  sun  was  going 

down. 

“Oh,  I have  had  a delightful  ride!”  she  cried  to 
her  mother,  as  she  lightly  sprang  to  the  ground. 

“And  how  will  Paul  do  for  a groom?”  asked  the 
mistress. 

“Well  enough,  only  he  must  have  a better  mount. 
T4iat  old  hack  cannot  begin  to  keep  up,  and  I had  to 
hold  Dido  back  all  the  way  to  keep  from  losing  him.” 

“Then  let  him  try  Selim.  If  he  can  manage  to  sit 
him,  he  will  give  Dido  as  much  fun  as  she  will  want,” 
said  the  master,  and  turning  to  me,  he  added: 

“Do  you  hear,  Paul,  the  next  time  you  ride  tell  Joe 
to  let  you  have  Selim.  The  pampered  dog  needs  hand- 
ling anyhow.  He  is  getting  positively  vicious.  Do 
you  think  you  can  ride  him?” 

“I  will  be  glad  to  try,  sir.” 

“Very  well,  you  had  as  well  begin  with  him  in 
the  morning.  Take  him  out  and  try  him.  He  is  a 
perfect  devil  and  will  need  breaking  before  you  ven- 
ture with  your  young  mistress.” 

Selim  was  a powerful  young  stallion,  almost  un- 
broken, and  not  only  high  spirited,  but  really  vicious. 
It  required  a firm  hand  and  a strong  arm  to  conquer 
him,  and  I had  to  work  hard  all  the  forenoon  before 
I could  overmaster  him. 

The  afternoon  was  inviting  again  and  the  horses 
were  ordered  out.  The  master,  in  order  to  see  Selim’s 
performance,  would  ride  with  his  daughter. 

Selim  was  still  spiteful,  and  I had  to  have  a little 
fight  with  him  at  the  stable  before  he  would  submit 
to  the  saddle,  and  then,  when  the  master  and  young 
mistress  had  mounted  and  turned  to  go,  he  revolted 
again  and  refused  to  let  me  mount.  I saw  that  it  was 
a case  of  human  determination  against  brute  obstinacy, 
and  determined  to  conquer  him  thoroughly,  at  once. 

I 

/ 


54 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


First,  I was  to  let  him  know  that  I was  not  afraid 
of  him,  and  next,  I was  to  make  him  afraid  of  me. 

This  is  the  secret  of  horse  taming.  He  was  a power- 
ful animal  and  desperate,  and  it  was  a fierce  struggle 
between  us.  At  length,  by  sheer  force  of  my  herculean 
strength,  I succeeded  in  throwing  him  by  a dextrous 
trip  of  his  fore  leg,  and  kneeling  with  my  heavy  weight 
upon  his  head  held  him  down  and  gave  his  jaws  a 
pounding  with  my  fist,  as  to  completely  subdue  him. 
With  a piteous  whinny,  as  if  calling  for  quarter,  he 
ceased  his  struggle  and  lay  passive  as  a dog.  Then 
I released  my  heavy  weight  from  his  head,  and  rising 
without  touching  the  bridle,  I bid  him  in  a gentle  tone 
to  rise.  As  meekly  as  a lamb,  he  obeyed,  and  from 
that  moment  on  I had  not  the  slightest  trouble  with 
him. 

4 ‘Bravo!  You  did  that  well,”  said  the  master,  as 
I mounted  and  gave  him  the  spur. 

“Yes,  that  was  really  brave  and  grand,”  enthusi- 
astically said  the  young  mistress.  “What  a magnifi- 
cent strength  the  fellow  must  have.” 

“Yes.  I don’t  believe  there  is  another  negro  on  the 
place  that  could  have  thrown  him  as  you  did,”  sup- 
plemented the  master. 

“Perhaps  not,”  I answered  a little  ungraciously. 

“But  is  it  quite  safe,  do  you  think  to  ride  him?  I 
am  almost  afraid  to  let  you  risk  it,”  said  the  young 
lady. 

“There  is  no  more  danger,”  I replied,  and  thus  as- 
sured, they  rode  on,  I following  at  a respectful  dis- 
tance. 

And  thus  our  rides  began.  The  next  day  it  rained 
and  she  could  not  venture  out,  but  the  following  after- 
noon it  was  bright  and  sunny,  and  she  started  early 
in  order  to  make  an  extended  excursion  around  the 
plantation  and  out  into  the  woods  beyond. 

On  we  swept,  fully  five  miles  away,  she  galloping 
ahead,  I following  at  the  same  speed  a few  paces  be- 
hind— sunshine  and  shadow — she  every  now  and  the®. 


t 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


55 


breaking  out  into  little  snatches  of  song,  I grimly  sil- 
ent, not  a word  being  spoken  between  us.  The  fields 
were  passed  and  we  came  to  the  woods,  when  she 
suddenly  drew  up,  casting  a questioning  glance  around 
as  if  in  search  of  her  bearings. 

“I  believe  it  is  over  the  next  hill,  a little  way  to 
the  right,  ” she  said,  more  to  herself  than  to  me. 

“What  is  it  you  seek?”  I ventured  to  ask. 

“The  Ball  Cave — quite  a curiosity.  Have  you 
seen  it?” 

“Oh,  no,  I have  seen  but  little  of  the  outdoors  here,” 
I answered. 

“Yes.  Well,  I am  quite  sure  that  it  is  over  there,” 
and  urging  her  mare  onward,  with  a little  touch  of 
the  whip,  she  rode  by  a dim  bridle  path  through  the 
woods,  over  a little  hill,  until  she  found  the  place. 

It  was,  indeed,  in  a miniature  way,  quite  a curiosity 
of  nature.  It  was  a deep,  broad  and  sandy  bottomed 
gully  or  cave,  wmshed  out  of  the  foot  of  the  hill  by 
the  winter  torrents,  or,  in  plantation  parlance,  wet, 
weather  branch. 

From  a small  beginning,  a little  break,  at  first,  a 
few  years  before  it  had  by  constant  caving  in  of  the 
sides  and  washing  out  of  the  bottom,  widened  and 
lengthened  and  deepened,  until  now  it  was  a yawn- 
ing chasm,  some  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  deep,  and  as 
many  feet  wide  at  the  neck. 

For  a few  moments  the  young  mistress  sat  and 
looked  it  over,  and  then  half  in  soliloquy,  she  said: 
“How  rapidly  it  widens.  I used  to  make  Dido  jump 
it  before  I went  away  to  school.  I vmnder  if  you 
can  jump  it  now,  Dido?  I believe  I will  let  you 
try.” 

I hardly  thought  her  in  earnest,  but  respectfully 
raising  my  hat,  I ventured  a protest. 

“That  would  be  dangerous,”  I said. 

“And  so  much  more  exciting.  Yes,  Dido,  you  must 
carry  me  over,”  she  said,  fixing  herself  firmly  in  the 
saddle  and  drawing  the  mare  back  for  a start. 


56 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


‘ 1 Surely,  you  are  not  in  earnest/’  I cried,  involun- 
tarily starting  forward. 

“Do  you  think  I am  an  idle  boaster?”  she  said 
sharply,  resenting  my  presumptuous  interference. 

“No,  no.;  but  please  do  not  attempt  this.  You  over- 
estimate the  strength  of  your  mare,  as  you  underesti- 
mate the  width  of  the  chasm.  Your  mare  could  not 
possibly  make  the  leap.  It  would  be  as  much  as  I 
could  do  to  make  it  myself.” 

“You,”  with  a pretty  scorn,  “you  make  it~on  Selim 
and  Dido* can’t?” 

“No,  Selim  could  not  make  it.  It  would  be  as  much 
as  his  neck  is  worth  to  try  it.  I meant  on  my  own 
feet.” 

“Well,  I will  see.  I shall  make  Dido  jump  first 
and  then  you  shall  follow.  Get  down  and  hitch  your 
horse  and  prepare  to  jump.  I will  teach  you  how  to 
interfere  with  my  pleasure.  You  forget  your  place., 
sir. 9 9 

In  dismay  at  the  foolish  caprice,  I dismounted  and 
hitched  Selim;  but  not  to  humor  her  whim. 

“Please,  Miss  Virginia,  do  not  try  it.  It  will  be  cer- 
tain hurt,  more  probably  death,  for  you  to  attempt  it,” 
I implored,  standing  before  her  mare. 

“Stand  out  of  my  way,”  she  cried,  angered  at  my 
determined  opposition. 

“But  you  must  not.  It  would  be  death  to  you,  and 
I would  be  a murderer  to  permit  it,”  I replied,  reach- 
ing out  my  hand  and  grasping  the  bridle. 

“Let  go  my  reins,”  she  ordered,  with  crimson  cheek 
and  flashing  eyes. 

I could  not  reply,  but  kep#  a firm  hold  on  the 
snaffle. 

“I  will  ride  you  down,”  she  almost  hissed  in  her 
passion,  and  giving  her  mare  a cut  with  her  whip,  she 
urged  her  on  me. 

The  excited  creature  made  a lunge  forward,  but 
with  less  length  than  it  took  to  conquer  Selim,  I threw 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


57 


her  back  on  her  haunches  and  held  her  with  an  iron 
grip. 

“Wretch ! slave ! dog  of  a negro ! how  dare  yon,  dare 
you,  dare  you!”  she  fairly  screamed,  fiercely  lashing 
me  in  the  face  with  her  whip,  fairly  raining  the  sting- 
ing blows  upon  me  with  each  repeated  vehement  ut- 
terance. 

The  cuts  were  severe,  one  even  bringing  the  blood 
from  my  temple,  but  I felt  not  the  sting,  neither  did 
I heed  her  wrathful  words  of  contumely  and  scorn. 
Only  closing  my  eyes  to  protect  them  from  the  lash, 
as  each  blow  fell  in  lightning  succession,  I stood  un- 
moved and  immovable.  I knew  in  her  frantic  rage  that 
it  would  be  a waste  of  words  to  speak,  and  so  like 
a statute  of  bronze,  with  muscles  flexed,  silent  and  al- 
most motionless,  I stood  holding  the  mare  back  with 
vise-like  grip. 

“I  shall  report  this  outrage  to  my  father,  and  have 
Joe  to  flay  you  alive  for  this  insolence,”  she  said,  as 
for  lack  of  strength  she  suspended  her  blows. 

“Your  father,  when  he  knows,  will  not  blame  me  for 
saving  you  from  your  folly.  Oh,  my  mistress,  do 
please,  please  stop  one  moment  and  think.  It  is  not 
to  displease  you,  to  offend  or  to  vex,  that  I do  this, 
but  it  is  for  your  own  sake.  It  would  be  worse  than 
folly,  it  would  be  madness  for  you  to  drive  your  mare 
to  this  leap.  You  would  both  go  down  to  the  bot- 
tom and  be  crushed.  I cannot,  I shall  not  allow  you 
to  do  it,”  I answered,  taking  a reassertive  grip  on  the 
bridle. 

“You  still  defy  me?” 

“No,  Miss  Virginia,  I do  not  defy  you.  In  all  things 
else  I will  obey  you,  even  to  making  the  jump  myself, 
even  to  die  myself  and  for  you;  but  you,  you  must 
not  be  hurt.  It  is  not  to  insolently  brave  you  that  I 
interfere,  but  you  shall  not  attempt  this  danger.  You 
may  lash  me  as  much  as  you  please,  and  have  Joe 
to  whip  me  like  a dog,  but  unless  my  arm  withers,  I 
shall  stand  here  until  dark  and  hold  you  back.” 


58  THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 

It  may  have  been  the  firmness  of  my  tone,  that  sub- 
dued her  wilful  caprice,  or  it  may  have  been  the  natu- 
ral subsidence  of  a woman’s  sudden  wrath  that  sob- 
ered her;  one,  or  both,  perhaps,  but  I felt  a giving 
away  of  the  strained  hold  on  the  reins  and  in  a second 
more  she  was  crying. 

I knew  then  that  the  danger  was  over,  and  gently 
patting  the  nose  of  her  mare  to  quiet  her  restive  ex- 
citement, I released  my  hold  and  stood  back. 

‘ ‘ Oh,  did  I do  that  ? I am  so  sorry ! ’ ’ she  cried,  and 
there  was  genuine  contrition  in  her  voice  as  she 
noticed  the  blood  which  in  a little  rill  from  my  temple 
was  trickling  down  my  cheek  and  staining  the  white- 
ness of  my  collar  and  shirt  front.  “Oh,  I have  hurt 
you,  please,  please  forgive  me.” 

I had  not  noticed  it  myself  until  then,  as  I had  felt 
no  smart  of  pain. 

“It  is  nothing,”  I assuringly  answered,  drawing  my 
bandana  to  wipe  it  away. 

“But  I am  very,  very  sorry.  Here,  stand  nearer  and 
let  me  wipe  it  away,  please,”  she  cried,  as  impulsive  in 
her  pity  as  she  had  been  frantic  in  wrath  ; and  before 
I could  draw  back  she  was  leaning  forward  and  softly 
wiping  my^cheek  with  her  snowy  and  daintily  per- 
fumed handkerchief.  The  soft,  zephyr-like  cambric 
greedily  absorbed  the  little  tide,  and  in  an  instant  its 
snowy  whiteness  was  changed  to  scarlet. 

“Oh,  this  is  cruel,  so  unkind,  so  unlady-like.  I am 
so  sorry,  truly,  truly  sorry.  You  must  please,  please 
forgive  me,”  she  continued,  and  there  were  tears  of 
pity  in  her  eyes  as  she  spoke. 

“Oh,  this  is  nothing.  It  'does  not  hurt,  nor  does 
it  matter.  Only  see  you  have  soiled  your  handker- 
chief,” I answered,  drawing  away  and  using  my  own. 

“It  was  so  wrong  in  me  to  strike  you.  You  must 
please  forgive  me.  I — I hardly  knew  what  I was  do- 
ing. ’ ’ 

“Certainly,  I can  excuse  you.  It  was  a desperate 
boldness  in  me  to  stand  against  your  wishes;  only  I 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


59 


was  sure  that  you  did  not  understand  the  danger,  and 
I had  to  do  it  to  save  you.” 

“Yes,  I see  now,  and  I ought  not  to  have  lost  my 
temper.  But  I did  not  think  it  dangerous,  and  then 
the  danger  fascinated  me — it  always  does.  I still  be- 
lieve that  I can  make  the  leap  on  Dido.  ’ ’ 

“But  I pray  you  never  to  try  it,”  I interrupted  with 
a vehemence  which  fairly  startled  her. 

“No,  since  you — you  have — have — I mean,  since  you 
so  unselfishly  oppose  it,”  she  stammered.  “No,  I shall 
never  again  attempt  it.  But  I see  I shall  have  to  avoid 
the  place  or  I may  be  tempted  again.” 

“It  is  dangerous,  and  ought  to  be  either  filled  in 
with  timbers  or  else  fenced  around,”  I ventured, 
anxious  to  keep  her  mind  from  coming  back  to  the 
matter  of  my  hurt.  “May  I mount,  now,  and  will 
you  go?” 

“Yes,  mount  and  we  will  go;  only  I must  again  ask 
you  to  forgive  me,  and  thank  you  for  so  bravely  doing 
what  you  thought  to  be  your  duty.” 

“That  I thought  it  my  duty  was  why  I did  it.  You 
know  I would  not  willingly  oppose  or  vex  you,”  I 
answered  rather  fervidly. 

“Oh,  yes,  I see  now,  and  am  very  sorry;  only  some- 
how, I could  not  help  it.  I am  so  fond  of  the  excite- 
ment of  a ‘dare.’  It  would  have  been  such  a pretty 
boast  to  have  made  my  friends  what  a gallant  leap 
I had  made.  And  you — you  said  you  could  jump  it ! 
Do  you  really  mean  it?” 

“I  did  not  say  it  boastingly,”  I answered. 

“I  cannot  believe  it,”  with  a dubious  shake  of  the 
head. 

And  wishing  to  divert  her  mind  from  her  own  fiasco, 
as  well  as  to  display  an  agility  and  strength  of  which 
I was  really  proud,  I instantly  resolved  to  do  it. 

“I  will  show  you;  only,  first  you  must  promise  that 
you  will  not  try  to  make  Dido  follow?” 

“I  have  already  said  it,  and  you — I must  not  let 


60 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 

you  attempt  it.  There  is  the  same  danger  to  you,”  she 
said. 

“No,  not  nearly  so  much.  Were  I to  miss  the  bank 
I should  light  safely  on  my  feet  at  the  bottom.  If  you 
will  permit  the  discourtesy,  I will  lay  off  my  coat,”  I 
answered  as  obstinately  determined  as  she  herself  had 
been. 

“Of  course;  nobody  cares  for  your  coat,”  with  a 
soupcon  of  disdain.  -“But  I really  ought  not  to  allow 
you  to  undertake  the  leap.” 

But  before  she  could  further  protest,  I had  thrown 
off  my  coat,  and  girding  my  loins  with  my  handker- 
chief I stepped  back  a few  paces  for  a running  start. 

With  a spring,  bold  and  strong  as  a panther’s,  I 
vaulted  up  and  forward,  landing  with  all  ease  upon 
the  farther  bank.  But  I had  hot  reckoned  on  the 
treacherous  nature  of  the  soil,  and  had  I,  it  would 
possibly  have  availed  me  little.  The  winter  torrents 
and  early  spring  freshets  had  underwashed  the  bank 
to  an  extent  undiscernible  from  the  other  side,  and 
under  the  sudden  impact  of  my  weight  a mass  of  earth 
gave  way.  But  for  the  tegument  of  sod,  which,  cling- 
ing for  a second,  afforded  me  a momentary  founda- 
tion, I should  have  been  precipitated  ingloriously  with 
the  rushing  sand  to  the  depths  below;  and  it  was  only 
by  an  almost  superhuman  effort  that  I gathered  my- 
self sufficiently  to  make  a second  spring,  gaining  an 
absolutely  firm  footing  beyond  the  treacherous  brink. 

I fancied  I heard  a little  startled  cry  of  affright  as 
the  earth  gave  way,  quickly  followed  by  a joyous  clap- 
ping of  hands  and  little  shouts  of  excitement  as  I re- 
gained my  footing  in  safety. 

It  was  indeed  a gallant  leap,  full  twenty  feet:  but 
I knew  my  strength,  imbued  by  that  inspiring  pres- 
ence, and  I did  not  fear  to  make  it,  and  doubly  as- 
sured by  her  applause  I took  another  running  start, 
and  with  a stronger  bound  landed  safely  back  again. 

“Ah,  that  was  bravely  done,”  she  cried,  as  I un- 
loosed my  girth  and  hastily  donned  my  coat.  “Bat 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


61 


it  was  fearful,  really  dangerous.  I could  not  cenceive 
the  danger  until  I saw  you  in  the  air  and  measured 
the  distance  by  your  flight,  and  then  when  the  earth 
gave  way.  I — I — I see  now  that  Dido  could  never 
have  carried  me  over,  and  I — I have  to  thank  you  for 
saving  me  from  a great  peril/  ’ and  much  to  my  sur- 
prise I looked  up  to  find  her  crying  again. 

I felt  a nameless  and  unconscious  thrill  of  delight 
as  I saw  the  tears,  but  to  soothe  her  I answered, 
softly : 

“You  must  not  exaggerate  the  service.  I hardly 
think  that  you  could  have  urged  your  mare  to  make 
the  trial/ 9 and  then  mounting  and  respectfully  touch- 
ing my  hat,  I added,  “And  now,  if  you  please,  I am 
ready. ? ’ 

“Well,  come  on;  only  you  need  not  keep  your  place 
so  far  behind.  You  can  come  nearer.  I wish  to  talk.” 

It  was  not  the  gracious  permission  so  much  as  the 
rosy  flush  of  her  cheek  and  the  shy,  half-shamed  droop- 
ing of  her  expressive  eyes  that  so  exalted  my  soul  as 
I answered: 

“You  are  very  kind.  May  I thank  you  for  your 
grace  ? ” 

“Oh,  no  need  of  thanks.  It  is  for  my  own  pleasure,” 
she  said,  reining  her  mare  to  the  right  to  make  room 
for  me  on  her  left. 

With  a proper  deference  I accepted  the  place,  only 
drawing  back  enough  to  give  her  a due  percedence. 

“I  noticed  your  magnificent  strength  the  other  day 
in  your  contest  with  Selim,  and  your  wonderful  ac- 
tivity today.  Both  feats  were  worthy  an  athlete.  Are 
they  not  remarkable  or  are  they  both  common  to  your 
race?”  she  asked. 

“I  do  not  know,”  I answered  modestly,  and  then 
to  belie  the  humility  I added,  boastingly,  “I  have 
never  yet  found  a man  whom  I could  not  easily 
handle.” 

“I  can  welhbelieve  that.  You  should  be  proud  of 
such-such  a — a glory.” 


62 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


“As  I have  nothing  else  to  be  proud  of  I am  in- 
deed proud  of  my  strength,  ’ ’ I answered  a little  scorn- 
fully. 

“Oh!  you  mean  because  you  are  a negro  slave?” 
she  asked  quickly. 

“Not  because  I am  a slave,  but  because  I am  a 
negro.  Do  you  think,”  I added  almost  fiercely,  “that 
were  it  not  for  this,  the  accursed  blood  of  Ham  that 
taints  my  manhood  and  darkens  my  life,  I would  re- 
main a slave  a day,  that  all  the  chains  ever  forged 
could  hold  me  in  bondage  ?” 

“What?”  with  an  imperious  erection  of  the  head. 
“What,  would  you  defy  the  authority  of  your  master, 
of  my  father?” 

“I  should  defy  the  authority  and  the  power  of  all 
hell  itself,”  I answered. 

“Then,  sir,  you  must  fall  behind  to  your  proper 
place,  I can  not  trust  such  an  insolence  nearer,”  wav- 
ing me  back  as  she  slightly  touched  up  her  mare. 

I could  have  bitten  off  my  tongue  for  its  bold  and 
defiant  words. 

“Oh,  my  mistress,  please  forgive  me;  forgive  my 
madness,  my  impertinent  heat,  but  I did  not  intend  it 
for  insolence.  I would  not  offend  or  frighten  you,  you 
of  all  the  world.  Please  let  me  apologize  or  at  least 
explain,”  I cried  in  such  penitent  eagerness  that  she 
was  mollified,  if  not  touched. 

“How  can  you  justify  the  threat  you  have  made,” 
she  asked. 

“But  it  was  no  threat.  It  was  only  a proposition 
— a violent  one,  I grant — but  it  was  qualified  by  an 
impossible  condition.  I said  ‘if  I were  not  a negro.’ 
But,  alas,  I am  a negro,  and  that  conviction  subdues 
me.  Being  a negro,  I am  perhaps  unfitted  for  free- 
dom. I am  a slave  simply  because  I am  a negro,  and 
not  a negro  because  I am  a slave.  It  is  the  race  and 
not  the  condition  I despise.  If  I were  a white  man,  I 
should  be  free,  even  though  I had  to  conquer  my  free- 
dom at  the  point  of  a dagger.  But  I am  a negro,  and 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


63 


being  one,  I do  not  so  much  as  care  to  be  free;  cer- 
tainly, I should  not  be  willing  to  exchange  my  servi- 
tude here  with  a mistress  so  gracious  and  a master  so 
kind,  for  a barbarian  kingdom  in  Africa.” 

“Very  well,  I excuse  you.  You  need  not  fall  back. 
But  somehow  you  strangely  puzzle  and  almost  frighten 
me.  There  is  something,  a kind  of  magnetic  master- 
ship about  you  that  I almost  fear.  You  do  not  seem 
like  a negro  to  me,  nor  do  you  talk  like  one.  You  speak 
and  reason  as  if  you  were  educated.  You  have  excited 
my  curiosity  and  you  must  tell  me  something  of  your- 
self. Can  you  read?  Do  you  know  anything  about 
books?”  she  asked,  dropping  the  imperious  tone  of 
the  mistress  and  speaking  almost  as  an  equal,  as  she 
draw  back  her  mare  instead  of  waiting  for  me  to  spur 
my  own  horse  up  to  her  side. 

I could  not  help  the  little  triumph  of  pride  with 
which  I answered. 

“Oh,  yes,  I can  read  ” 

“And  write?” 

“Yes,  quite  legibly,”  I answered. 

“Ah,  and  who  taught  you?” 

“The  young  son  of  the  overseer  on  the  plantation 
taught  me  my  letters,  and  to  spell.  What  else  I have 
learned  I taught  myself.” 

“Indeed,  and  how  much  have  you  learned?” 

“As  much  as  with  hard  study,  with  my  limited  op- 
portunities, I could  acquire.” 

“That  hardly  answers  my  question.  What  branches 
have  you  studied,  and  how  far  have  you.  advanced  ? ’ ’ 

“I  have  a little  smattering  of  everything— that  is 
to  say  of  the  sciences;  but  I am  more  proficient  in 
literature — that  is,  in  history,  biography,  travels,  poet- 
ry, with  a slight  acquaintance  with  the  classics.” 

“You  surprise  me;  and  when  did  you  find  time  for 
all  this,  and  where  did  you  get  the  books?” 

“I  employed  all  my  idle  moments  on  the  plantation, 
and  all  last  year  here.  I picked  up  a scant  supply  of 
books  on  the  plantation,  and  when  I came  here  I ven- 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


64 

tured  to  steal  from  the  library.  I considered  it  no 
wrong  and  since  you  have  asked  me,  I will  confess 
that  I have  read  almost  every  volume  in  my  mas- 
ter’s library.  ” 

“Mo,  it  was  no  wrong;  only  many  of  the  works  are 
in  French,  our  mother  tongue,  you  could  not  read 
them?” 

“Yes,  miss,  pardon  the  seeming  egotism,  but  I mas- 
tered the  language,  too,  and  can  read  French  as  under- 
standingly  as  I can  English.” 

“This  is  a revelation,”  she  murmured  half  to  her- 
self, and  then  she  went  on  with  her  interrogations. 

“You  say  you  like  poetry?  Now,  tell  me  your  favor- 
ite author.  I wish  to  know  your  taste.” 

“You  are  very  kind.  My  taste  may  not  stand  ap- 
proved, I hardly  think  it  would  in  some  instances,  but 
still  as  you  wish  to  know  I will  tell  you.  I think  of 
all  the  poets  who  have  written  the  truest  and  the 
grandest  is  Shakespeare.” 

“That  is  good — he  is  incomparable;  and  which  of 
his  works  is  best?” 

“I  can  hardly  say,  but  I like  his  historical  plays 
best;  his  stories  of  the  English  kings,  his  Henrys  and 
Richards,  the  wars  of  the  Plantagenets  and  the  Tu- 
dors.” 

“That  is  good  again.  Your  taste  is  not  so  barbar- 
ous as  you  think,  but  what  of  Othello,  I should  think  a 
fellow  feeling  would  inline  you  to  that — the  exploits 
of  the  Moor.” 

“That  is  too  unnatural,  too  gloomy  and  sad.” 

“Ah ! how?” 

“The  injustice  of  fate-— the  retribution  that  followed 
the  gentle  Desclemona's  unnatural  love  for  the  black 
hero  seemed  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  supposed  of- 
fense. It  was  as  unnaturally  cruel  as  her  misplaced 
love  was  unnaturally  sweet.  Such  tender  devotion  de- 
served a far  different  fate.  I do  not  like  Othello.” 

‘ ‘ Still  you  must  admit — I credit  you  with  more  than 
ordinary  intelligence — that  it  was  a wretched  perver- 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


65 


SH«n  of  maidenly  affection  and  maidenly  virtue  for 
*ueh  a girl,  the  daughter  of  a senator,  to  fall  so  madly 
and  blindly  in  love  with  such  a man — a Moor,  a 

negro.” 

“In  truth  it  was,”  I answered  soberly,  and  then  we 
rode  on  in  silence,  leaving  us  both  to  cogitate  upon 
the  vagaries,  the  possibilities  and  fortunes  of  the 
human  heart. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


THE  ACCIDENT. 


While  this  little  episode  served  to  make  us  the  bet- 
ter acquainted,  it  also  served  to  put  us  farther  apart. 
The  old  familiarity  of  mistress  and  slave  had  mysteri- 
ously vanished,  and  instead  of  treating  me,  as  hereto- 
fore, with  innocent  indifference,  she  unconsciously 
drew  herself  back  in  a little  shell  of  maidenly  reserve, 
not  absolutely  cold,  but  infinitely  more  becoming  to 
her  womanly  sweetness,  and  so  much  more  just  to  me. 

This  change  I noticed  the  next  morning,  when,  as 
usual,  I went  into  her  room  to  make  her  fire ; for  the 
early  spring  mornings  were  yet  chilly.  I found  the 
curtains  of  her  bed  closely  drawn,  and  not  a thread 
of  lace,  not  a suspicion  of  hosiery,  nor  a frill  nor  a 
furbelow  could  be  seen  to  suggest  the  mystery  of  a 
lady’s  chamber.  And  when  I went  out  and  stooped 
at  the  door  to  find  her  boots  they  were  not  there. 
Thinking  that  the  careless  Sally  had  neglected  to  set 
them  out,  I gently  knocked,  when  the  young  mistress, 
herself,  answered. 

“What  is  it  you  want?” 

“If  you  please,  I came  for  your  boots.  Sally  has 
forgotten  to  put  them  out,”  I explained. 

“Never  mind  about  my  boots.  I shall  not  trouble 
you  to  polish  them  any  more.  Stumpy  Jake  has  nothing 
else  to  do,  and  hereafter  he  will  attend  to  my  boots.” 

I turned  away  a little  sadly,  feeling,  somehow,  that 
something  bright  had  been  taken  from  me. 

That  afternoon  she  rode  again,  but  when  she  went 
to  mount,  instead  of  hoidenly  springing  into  her  saddle 
in  innocent  disregard  of  the  exposure  of  tantalizing 

66 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


67 


embroidery  and  immaculate  skirts  as  she  had  hereto- 
fore done,  she  demurely  nodded  for  me  to  come. 

“Hereafter,  I shall  have  to  place  a little  of  your 
magnificent  strength  under  contribution.  Yqu  must 
help'  me  to  mount.  ’ 9 

“All  of  my  strength  is  at  your  service,’ ’ I answered, 
but  instead  of  crouching  on  my  hands  and  knees  with 
my  back  for  a step,  as  Louis  had  done,  I chivalrous- 
ly stooped,  offering  my  hand  for  her  foot.  She  drew 
back  her  skirts  and  placed  it  in  my  broad  palm,  and 
with  one  hand  grasping  her  reins  and  the  other  rest- 
ing on  my  shoulder,  I lifted  her  up  to  her  seat  as 
easily  as  if  she  had  been  a laughing  little  child. 

I am  sure  that  she  must  have  felt  something  of  the 
magnetism  of  my  strength,  for  I thought  I felt  a little 
fluttering  of  her  fingers  on  my  shoulder  as  I raised  her 
in  the  air.  "With  a slight  flush,  she  smilingly  thanked 
me  for  the  service,  and  calling  me  to  follow,  she  gal- 
loped away. 

She  chose  that  afternoon  a new  route.  Instead  of 
the  lanes  which  ran  to  the  south,  she  turned  to  the 
wooded  hills  north.  She  galloped  a matter  of  a mile 
or  more  before  she  drew  rein  and  nodded  for  me  to 
come  up. 

“I  wish  you  to  show  me  how  badly  I hurt  you  yes- 
terday. Is  it  very  painful?”  she  asked  with  contrite 
tenderness  in  her  voice. 

“It  is  nothing,  hardly  a scratch.  It  was  only  a little 
cut  that  happened  to  strike  a vein.  It  is  quite  well 
now,  you  can  see,”  I assuringly  answered,  raising  my 
hat  and  turning  my  temple  towards  her. 

“And  you  will  promise  me  again  that  you  forgive 
me.  You  cannot  know  how  truly  sorry  I have  been. 
I thought  of  it  over  and  over  again,  all  the  livelong 
night — and  of  you — and  I had  to  cry  with  shame  and 
sorrow  for  my  cruel  and  unjust  anger,  when  it  was  all 
for  me,  for  my  safety,  you  did  it.  Oh,  you  must  tell 
me  again  that  you  forgive  me.” 

“That  it  made  you  think  kindly  of  me,  more  than 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


pays  for  the  little  hurt.  I should  be  willing  to  bear 
anything  from  you  if — if — ” 

“If  what?”  she  asked,  as  my  tongue  stammering- 
ly refused  to  speak. 

“I  must  not  say.  It  would  be  a presumption  in  me 
to  speak  it,”  I answered. 

“But  you  may  speak  almost  anything  without  of- 
fense to  me.  After  doing  all  that  you  did  for  me, 
despite,  too,  of  my  wicked  anger,  I feel  that  I owe  you 
something  more  than  an  apology.  What  is  it  then  that 
you  would  ask?'” 

“I  can  ask  nothing,  my  lady,  that  would  be  sweeter 
or  dearer  to  me  than  to  have  you  think  always,  always 
kindly  of  me.” 

“Then  I shall  always  think  kindly  of  you,”  she 
answered  sweetly,  “and  I may  tell  you  more,  how  much 
I like  you ; how  very  pleased  I am  with  your  manly,  I 
may  say,  gentlemanly,  deportment,  and”  adding  with 
considerable  empressement,  “how  much  I admire  your 
magnificent  strength.  Do  you  know  that  I think  physi- 
cal prowess  one  of  the  noblest  attributes  of  man — 
that  in  a superb  physique,  in  courage  and  strength  he 
approaches  nearest  to  the  gods?” 

I am  sure  that  the  hot  blood  in  my  cheeks  must 
have  told  what  a riot  of  thoughts  and  passionate  hopes 
her  words  had  kindled  in  my  heart,  for  her  own  face 
flushed  red  as  a rose  in  June  as  I thanked  her  with 
my  eyes. 

Steadying  my  voice,  as  well  as  I could,  I answered 
by  qualifying  her  extravagant  proposition.  ‘ ‘ The  gods 
of  mythology,  you  mean?  Yes,  their  physical  prowess 
seems  to  have  been  their  chief  glory ! 7 7 and  then,  with 
a pardonable  vanity,  I added,  “Yes,  I am  proud  of 
my  strength,  proud  of  my  stature,  proud  of  my  man- 
hood; and  I thank  my  God  that  in  giving  me  my  life 
of  shame  and  degradation,  my  father  had,  perforce, 
to  give  with  it  something  of  his  own  herculean  strength 
and  athletic  form.7 9 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


69 


‘ < Do  you  know  your  father  ? Pew  like  you  do.  ’ ’ She 
said. 

“I  never  saw  my  father,’ ’ I answered,  evasively, 
but  unthoughtfully  added,  "he  was  killed  the  day  on 
which  I was  born/’ 

"Killed?  how  sad.  But,  who  was  your  father?”  she 
asked,  half  curiously,  half  kindly. 

"It  can  do  no  possible  good  for  any  one  to  ever 
know.  Had  he  lived  he  would  have  scorned  to  own 
me.  Being  dead,  I shall  not  reproach  his  shade  by 
claiming  him.  I am  proud  of  the  strength  he  gave 
me  and  can  forgive  him  for  the  laches  of  a name.” 

"I  am  very  sorry,”  she  softly  said,  "It  seems  that 
a great  wrong  has  been  done.” 

"I  hardly  know.  It  is  a puzzling  question.  I have 
studied  much  about  the  matter,  the  mystery  of  being, 
©f  birth,  of  life  and  of  death,  and  I am  no  wiser  yet. 
We  will  say  a wrong  has  been  done  me  in  my  creation. 
Now,  which  of  my  parents  am  I to  reproach  for  the 
wrong?  My  father  gave  me  my  physique,  my  manly 
mould,  my  strength  and  a certain  refinement  of  thought 
and  feeling  that  no  one  else,  perhaps,  could  have  giv- 
en; but  in  the  laws  of  the  land,  in  the  decree  of  so- 
ciety, he  denied  me  a name.  My  mother  gave  me 
life.  It  was  through  her  I breathed  and  had  my  be- 
ing, without  her  I had  never  been.  But  in  giving 
me  life,  she  gave  with  it  the  curse  of  her  race,  the 
taint  of  her  blood,  the  negro  skin  of  her  father. 
She  could  not  help  that  because  it  was  hers  from  the 
beginning  of  creation.  If  it  be  good  for  me  that  I am 
alive — that  I exist  and  have  a being — I cannot  blame 
my  mother  for  bringing  me  into  life;  and  surely,  I 
cannot  blame  my  father  for  giving  me  all  that  makes 
life  worth  living.” 

"You  perplex  me,”  she  said  with  a gentle  wonder 
in  her  eyes. 

"I  hope  I do  not  offend,.”  I answered  humbly. 

"Oh,  no.  It  is  the  mystery  that  puzzles  me,  the 


70 


..  THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


•mystery  of  life,  ’ ’ after  a moment  ’s  meditation,  ‘ ‘ of  your 
life,”  she  replied  with  a smile. 

“Yes,  it  is  a riddle,  my  life,  a dark  and  grewsome 
riddle,  as  profound  and  mayhap  as  sad  as  that  one  of 
(Edipus.  But  I do  not  care  to  solve  it.  I can  only 
suppose  that  there  is  some  inscrutable  purpose  in  my 
being,  that  there  is  something  in  this  world  for  me  to 
do — some  niche  to  fill,  some  destiny  pre-ordained,  per- 
haps—and  so  believing,  I leave  the  issue  with  the  same 
power  that  so  ordained  it.” 

“And  you  say  your  father  was  killed?  I hope  not 
murdered,”  she  asked  after  a little  silence. 

“No,  hardly  murdered — that  is,  the  wrorld  did  not 
call  it  murder.  My  father  wTas  a gentleman — even  if 
he  were  my  father — and  was  killed  in  a duel.” 

“A  duel?  That  was  sad;  and  do  you  know  that  I 
had  an  uncle — my  father’s  only  brother— killed  in  a 
duel?” 

“I  have  been  told  so.” 

“Yes,  it  was  many  years  ago,  ever  so  long  before 
I was  born,  but  I have  hard  my  father  talk  so  much 
about  it  that  I can  fancy  I had  almost  seen  it.”  And 
as  if  saddened  by  the  remembrance,  she  lapsed  into 
silence,  while  I dropped  back  to  my  proper  place. 

But  little  more  was  said  during  the  ride.  When  wre 
returned  I dismounted  and  offered  my  assistance  to 
her.  Again  disdaining  the  toad-like  hump,  I stood 
proudly  before  her  in  my  upright  strength.  She  light- 
ly rested  her  hands  on  my  shoulders  and  reaching  up 
my  hands  I clasped  her  waist  and  lifted  her  down.  Ah, 
what  a tremor  choked  me  as  I held  her  almost  in  my 
arms,  feeling  her  warm  breath  upon  my  cheeks,  inhal- 
ing with  greedy  inspiration  its  virgin  fragrance. 

“Thanks,”  she  smilingly  said  and  lightly  tripped 
away. 

The  spring,  in  this  sunny  southland  of  ours,  was 
now  coming,  and,  like  the  gardens  and  fields  and  woods 
without,  the  house  had  to  be  put  in  summer  dress. 
The  warm  billowy  Turkish  carpets  had  to  be  taken 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


71 


up  and  cool  summer  oils  and  mattings  were  put  down. 
The  heay  damask  curtains  of  the  windows  gave  place 
to  airy  cloud-like  lace.  It  was  my  place  to  see  to  all 
this,  and  in  the  task  I found  employment  for  every 
moment  of  the  morning  and  forenoon.  I remember 
what  a pleasure  each  morning’s  work  was,  inspired 
by  the  happy  anticipation  of  the  afternoon’s  ride. 

I was  thus  busy  one  morniiig  after  breakfast,  when 
I was  summoned  by  the  shrill  call  of  my  master’s 
whistle  to  the  office.  I may  mention  that  whistle.  It 
was  an  unique  object,  massive  and  of  solid  gold,  and 
as  an  heirloom  for  generations  in  the  family  it  had 
its  legend.  It  was  the  double  throated,  sounding  two 
distinct  notes,  the  one  shrill  and  keen  he  used  for  his 
dogs,  the  other  more  musicially  sonorous  he  used  for 
calling  his  negroes. 

Responding  to  the  call,  I found  him  with  the  ladies 
in  his  office. 

4 4 Paul,”  he  said,  “get  Jake  and  Bony  and  Bob  to 
help  you.  I want  my  iron  safe  moved  to  the  other 
comer,”  pointing  to  an  old-fashioned  money  chest 
that  stood  in  the  farther  corner  of  the  room.  It  was 
an  awkward  affair,  made  of  thick  plates  of  iron,  heavy 
and  unwieldy,  with  two  massive  iron  rings  at  the  sides 
through  which  hand  spikes  had  to  be  thrust  to  lift  it. 

I glanced  at  it  to  measure  its  weight  and  then  rather 
boldly  ventured  to  try  it  with  my  hands. 

“Oh,  you  need  not  try.  It  takes  the  united  strength 
of  four  men  to  move  it.  There  never  lived  but  two 
men  who  could  lift  it,  my  father  and  my  brother 
Jules.  Go  call  the  boys  to  help  you,”  again  ordered 
the  master. 

“If  you  please,  sir,  I should  like  to  try,”  I said,  and 
without  waiting  further  permission  I caught  the  rings 
and  bracing  every  muscle  to  its  utmost  work,  stooped 
and  lifted  it  to  a level  with  my  knees. 

“Where  will  you  have  it?”  I asked,  standing  firm 
as  a statue. 

“In  the  corner  there.  But,  put  it  down;  do  not  try 


72 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


to  tote  it,”  he  ordered.  But  unheeding  the.  command, 
I carried  it  with  a steady  step  and  without  quaver- 
ing a muscle,  to  its  place  across  the  room. 

“My  God,  fellow!  what  a giant  you  must  be.  Pauline, 
did  you  see  that?  What  would  father  say,  think  you, 
if  he  could  have  seen  it?”  cried  the  master  in  aston- 
ishment. 

“He  would  have  envied  the  negro  his  strength.  You 
know  how  jealous  he  was  of  this  feat,  and  how  proud 
it  made  him  when  Jules  lifted  it.  It  was  their  boast 
that  no  one  else  could  do  it,”  answered  the  mistress. 

“Yes,  but  neither  of  them  could  fairly  straighten 
with  it,  much  less  carry  it  across  the  room.  Paul,  we 
shall  have  to  yield  you  the  belt.  I am  glad  though, 
that  it  doesn’t  have  to  go  out  of  the  family.  I shall 
have  you  a silver  mounted  belt  made.  You  deserve 
it.  But  now  you  can  go  back  to  your  work.” 

All  this  was  very  flattering  to  my  manhood,  and  I 
was  honestly  proud  of  his  praise,  but  not  half  so  grate- 
ful for  it  as  I was  for  the  admiring,  almost  tender 
glance  my  queenly  young  mistress  gave  me,  as  I turned 
away. 

It  was  an  hour  or  two  later,  and  I had  just  fin- 
ished hanging  the  curtains  of  the  drawing  room,  when 
I heard  a startled  cry,  a confused  rushing  of  feet 
across  the  hall  and  a terrified  chorus  of  screams.  Hur- 
rying out  to  ascertain  the  cause,  I saw  the  negroes  all 
rushing  toward  the  yard  in  the  rear  of  the  house 
where  I heard  the  mistress  screaming : 

“Oh,  my  darling!  my  child,  my  child!  She  is  deaxl, 
she  is  dead!” 

In  an  instant  I was  there,  I hardly  knew  how  I went, 
and  had  no  consciousness  of  going,  where  I found  the 
mistress  kneeling  beside  her  daughter,  with  her  head 
, resting  in  her  lap,  pale,  senseless  and  seemingly  dead. 

Without  thought  of  anyone  else  in  the  world  I 
stooped  and  gathered  her  in  my  arms,  clasping  her 
close  to  my  heart,  her  beautiful  head  on  my  shoulder 
and  her  lily-white  face  resting  against  my  swarthy 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


73 


cheek.  I turned  and  without  question  or  order  dashed 
into  the  house,  down  the  hall  and  was  turning  to  dash 
mp'  the  steps  to  her  room,  when  her  mother,  following 
almost  as  distractedly  close  after  me,  cried  out: 

“No,  no,  carry  her  to  my  room — to  my  bed.” 

Her  voice  sobered  me,  and  for  the  first  time  my 
senses  returned.  A wild,  frantic  impulse  had  moved 
me  before,  but  now  I was  cool  and  self-possessed  as 
ever,  and  releasing  .the  mad,  almost  crushing  clasp 
with  which  I had  strained  her  to  my  heart,  I tenderly 
tore  her  to  the  room  and  as  softly  placed  her  on  the 
bed. 

“Oh,  my  darling,  my  beautiful  darling — dead, 
dead,”  again  screamed  the  mother,  sinking  on  her 
knees  and  covering  the  pulseless  hands  with  kisses. 

“No,  no,  mistress,  please  God,  she  may  not  be  dead,” 
I answered,  encouragingly.  “She  may  have  fainted — 
please  unloosen  her  clothing  and  let  her  breathe,” 

“Then  why  don’t  you  do  it?  Quick;  cut  them,  tear 
them  open.  You  know  the  others  haven’t  the  sense 
to  do  anything,  ” she  ordered,  almost  angrily  at  my 
stupid  hesitancy. 

It  needed  no  further  order.  My  own  judgment  told 
me  what  ought  to  be  done,  and  done  quickly. 

With  the  imperious  authority  of  a master  I ordered 
the  screaming  mob  to  clear  the  room,-  and  then  as 
reverently  as  if  she  had  been  dead  indeed,  I unloosed 
her  zone,  opened  her  bodice  and  unlaced  her  stays. 

“Oh!  she  is  dead,  my  child,  my  child,”  again 
moaned  the  mother,  and  then  aroused  to  a sudden 
hope,  she  cried:  “See  if  she  breathes  and  put  your 
hand  on  her  heart  and  feel  if  it  beats.  ’ ’ 

I put  my  face  close  to  her  lips,  but  there  was  no 
breath,  and  then  lifting  its  gauzy  veil  I put  my  hand, 
my  swarthy,  broad,  strong  hand  upon  the  snowy 
breast,  when,  oh  joy,  as  if  electrified  into  life  by  the 
magnetism  of  the  touch,  the  precious  heart  gave  a 
flutter,  at  first  as  faint  and  tremulous  as  the  flutter 


'74 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


of  a bird,  but  growing  stronger  and  faster  with  each 
tremor  until  the  warm  tide  of  life  was  put  to  flowing 
again. 

I softly  withdrew  my  hand  and  as  softly  drew  the 
loose  covering  over  the  quivering  bosom,  and  uncon- 
sciously, as  if  to  help  her  .breathing,  I inhaled  a great 
draught  of  air  as  I watched  the  twitching  of  her  lips, 
the  little  gasps  and  then  the  baby-like  catching  of 
breath. 

“Oh,  my  mistress, ” I cried,  turning  to  the  distracted 
and  still  kneeling  mother,  “let  us  thank  God*  for  she  is 
alive.  She  still  lives,  and  w7ill  live. ’ 9 

“Yes,  let  us  thank  God.  Oh,  my  God,  I do  thank 
Thee,  and  will  bless  Thee  so  long  as  I live  for  giving 
my  darling  back  to  me/’  she  cried,  with  eyes  stream- 
ing with  grateful  tears,  and  then  putting  away  her 
weak  fears  she  arose  and  stooping  over  to  kiss  the  still 
quivering  lips,  she  said:  “Bring  me  the  brandy,  Win- 
nie, and  you,  Sally,  tell  Joe  to  ride  for  Doctor  Blue 
and  to  send  for  your  master/’ 

The  brandy  was  brought  and  a spoonful  forced  unto 
the  unconscious  lips  and  mechanically  gurgled  down 
and  then  she  turned  to  me. 

“Paul,  I can  trust  your  tender  hand  and  steady 
nerve.  You  must  see  now,  before  she  recovers  sensibil- 
ity to  pain  how  badly  she  is  hurt — if  there  be  any 
broken  bones.” 

My  mistress  had  sufficient  reason  for  her  confidence 
in  the  tender  touch  of  my  hand,  for  she  had  often 
required  me  to  rub  her  spine  and  to  chafe  her  ankles 
and  her  knees,  when  suffering  with  her  periodical  at- 
tacks of  rheumatism. 

Too  deeply  concerned  for  the  safety  of  my  lov£,  I 
did  not  hesitate  now,  and  commenced  at  once  an  ex- 
amination of  the  unconscious  sufferer.  A little  con- 
tusion on  the  fair  forehead,  now  black  and  swollen 
into  a little  knot,  spoke  for  itself.  This,  though  trifling, 
was  really  the  cause  of  her  fainting.  I then  pressed 
my  hands  down  her  arms,  giving  each  wrist  a severe 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


75 


pull,  but  no  injuries  developed  there.  Next  I gently 
straightened  out  the  still  passive  limbs  and  gave  her 
right  foot  a sharp  little  wrench,  but  no  responsive 
sign  of  injury,  but  when  I attempted  to  take  hold  of 
her  left  foot,  with  an  instinctive  flinch  it  was  jerked 
back  and  a little  moan  escaped  her  lips. 

“Her  left  foot  or  leg  seems  to  be  hurt.  Will  you 
see?”  I asked,  drawing  back  for  the  mother  to  make 
the  more  delicate  examination. 

“No,  you  see.  You  need  not  mind  it.  I could  not 
bear  the  sight  of  my  darling’s  hurt,”  she  answered. 

I unlaced  and  as  gently  as  I could  drew  off  her  boot, 
that  precious  little  boot  which  I had  so  often  pol- 
ished and  as  often  kissed,  but  in  drawing  it  off  I un- 
avoidably twisted  the  ankle  again,  when  this  time  the 
little  flinch  became  a spasmodic  drawing  up  of  the 
leg  and  as  the  little  moan  became  a cry  of  conscious 
pain. 

“Ah,  here  is  the  trouble.  She  has  sprained  or  broken 
the  ankle,”  I cried,  with  a load  of  fear  lifted  from  my 
mind. 

I knew  by  the  strength  with  which  she  drew  it  away 
that  the  leg  could  not  be  broken  and  the  injury  ex- 
tended no  higher  than  the  ankle. 

“Thank  God,  it  is  no  worse,”  cried  the  mistress  ven- 
turing to  withdraw  her  hands  from  the  eyes  she  had 
blinded  against  the  possibility  of  witnessing  pain. 

“Draw  off  her  stocking  and  see,”  she  said,  as  I again 
drew  back  of  her. 

I hesitated  a moment.  The  beautiful  girl  that  lay 
so  fair  before  me  was  no  longer  an  inanimate  form, 
insensible  to  sight  or  touch,  but  a living,  breathing 
body  with  the  warm  blood  pulsing  as  strong  as  ever. 

Impatient  at  my  indecision,  the  mistress  again  or- 
dered: “Pull  off  her  stocking,  I say,  why  do  you  hesi- 
tate? It  should  be  done  before  the  ankle  is  swollen.” 

As  daintily  as  I could  I unclasped  the  garter  and 
commenced  drawing  off  the  stocking,  but  the  swell- 


76 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


ing  had  already  commenced  and  a sharp  cry  of  pain 
compelled  me  to  stop. 

“Get  me  the  scissors,  I will  have  to  rip  the  stock- 
ing. The  foot  is  too  badly  swollen,”  I cried. 

“Yes,  yes — here  they  are.  Cut  it  into  shreds.  Never 
mind  the  stocking.” 

I seized  the  scissors  and  dextrously  ripped  the  silken 
meshes  apart  and  the  poor  wounded  ankle  lay  bare 
before  me,  purple  with  bruises  and  swollen  with  in- 
flammation. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


AWAKENING  SENSIBILITIES. 


I had  a very  fair  knowledge  of  the  human  anatomy. 
Of  all  the  sciences  upon  which  I had  touched  in  the 
course  of  my  discursive  readings  that  of  physiology 
with  its  concomitant  subjects  had  most  interested  me. 
I had  even,  in  my  restless  discontent  with  my  degraded 
condition  and  the  vague  longing  to  be  something  bet- 
ter than  a chattel,  thought  upon  the  possibilities  it 
possessed  for  usefulness,  if  not  for  distinction,  and 
somehow  had  seized  upon  it  as  the  one  possible  hope  of 
deliverance.  If  I could  master  it  with  the  materia 
medica,  I could  make  myself  more  useful  than  a drudge 
and  rise  to  the  status  of  a useful  manhood,  if  not  of 
freedom.  Thus  dreaming,  I had  given  the  science  more 
study  than  I had  given  all  others  put  together.  I trust 
then  that  I may  be  acquitted  of  the  charge  of  egotism 
when  I say  that  I had  fully  as  clear  an  idea  of  the 
subject  and  its  practical  application,  as  half  the 
diploma-fledged  young  doctors  the  colleges  of  our 
country  annually  turn  loose  upon  suffering  humanity 
today. 

Happily  this  knowledge  served  me  now.  Without 
torturing  the  sufferer  with  a painful  exploration,  I was 
able  to  diagnose  with  a touch  the  nature  and  extent 
of  the  hurt. 

"There  is  no  fracture — only  a slight  dislocation,”  I 
reported  to  the  anxious  mother.  ‘ ‘ Shall  I reset  it  or 
wait  until  the  doctor  comes  ? ’ ’ 

"Can  you?  Are  you  sure?”  She  anxiously  added. 

"It  is  simple,  and  I am  quite  sure.  If  you  can  trust 
me,  I can  easily  do  it.  And  if  you  please,  mistress, 

77 


78 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


it  had  better  be  done  so  soon  as  possible,  as  the  longer 
it  be  delayed  the  more  painful  it  will  become.” 

^ 4 Then  do  it.  I can  trust  you.  ’ ’ 

With  a firm  hand,  although  it  was  like  tugging  at 
my  own  heartstrings,  I caught  her  foot  and  grasping 
her  limb  firmly  with  my  other  hand,  I gave  the  neces- 
sary pull  and  with  a little  pop  the  joint  slipped  back 
into  its  place. 

With  a cry  of  pain  the  young  lady  started  up,  wak- 
ing back  to  consciousness. 

“ There,  darling,  it  is  all  over  now,”  soothingly  said 
her  mother,  putting  her  back  on  the  pillow  and  grate- 
fully kissing  her. 

“But  what  is  it?  Where  am  I — and  what  has  hap- 
pened?” she  asked  in  puzzled  confusion.  “Ah,  yes; 
I remember  now.  The  ground  did  really  fly  up  and 
hit  me,”  she  added,  as  a gleam  of  remembrance  flashed 
through  her  brain, 

“Yes,  you  fell  from  your  swing  and  were  hurt.  But 
you  are  better  now;  tell  me  darling,  that  you  are  bet- 
ter,” assuringly  coaxed  her  mother. 

“Oh,  yes,  that  was  how  it  came.  How  silly  I was, 
and  how  like  a dream.  I was  swinging  when  the  rope 
broke  and  I was  dashed  to  the  ground.” 

And  this  was  indeed  what  had  happened.  The  long 
sweeping  swing  suspended  from  the  high  branch  of 
the  oak  had  broken.  In  swinging  its  full  length,  as 
was  her  almost  daily  amusement,  one  of  the  ropes 
had  worn  in  two  and  breaking,  threw  her  as  we  had 
found  her. 

“But  darling,  tell  me  how  you  feel.  Where  are  you 
hurt?  Can  you  move?  Try,  sit  up.  Clap  your  hands 
and  kick;  try  your  legs,”  said  the  practical  mother, 
still  doubtful. 

Unconscious  of  her  dishabille,  she  raised  up,  and 
Raphael  himself  would  have  despaired  to  paint  the 
blush  on  her  cheek  as  she  realized  the  situation  and 
with  a little  cry  she  hugged  up  her  arms  to  hide  her 
breast  with  her  hands. 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


79 


To  relieve  her  blushes  I turned  to  the  window. 

“Does  anything  more  hurt  you?  Tell  me  all,”  again 
asked  the  mother,  alarmed  at  the  little  cry. 

“Oh.  no ; only  what  have  you  done  to  my  dress?  How 
came  it  in  this  plight?” 

“We  had  to  open  your  basque  and  corset  to  give 
you  breath.  But,  never  mind  your  dress;  see  if  you 
can  kick.” 

“I  am  hurt  nowhere  except  my  ankle.  Tell  Sally  to 
come  and  dress  me.” 

“But  you  cannot  stand;  you  must  lie  still.  Paul 
says  your  ankle  is  broken  and  you  must  not  try  to 
walk,”  protested  the  mother. 

“If  you  please,  Miss  Virginia,  J will  send  Sally,  but 
first  will  you  let  me  bandage  your  ankle.  It  should 
be  kept  tightly  bandaged  to  subdue  the  swelling,  and 
a constant  application  of  cold  water  must  be  kept 
up  to  subdue  the  inflammation,”  I suggested,  some- 
what empirically,  I grant. 

“Yes,  certainly  you  must.  There — here  are  the  ban- 
dages,” tearing  a piece  of  muslin  into  broad  bands. 
“Virginia,  you  must  let  him  do  it.” 

“Very  well — only  why  can’t  you  call  Mammy  Dilsey 
and  let  her  do  it.  I am  afraid  of  Paul’s  strong  hand.” 

“Paul’s  hand  can  be  tender  as  well  as  strong;  he 
can  do  it  much  better  than  Dilsey.  There,  you  lie  still 
and  he  will  not  hurt  you,”  answered  the  mistress,  and 
sinking  back  upon  her  pillow  the  young  lady  submitted 
without  a moan,  while  as  softly  as  I could  I tightly 
bandaged  the  ankle. 

“There,  that  is  better  already — stronger  and  better. 
I am  greatly  obliged  to  you,  Paul,”  she  said  after  I 
had  finished. 

“It  is  a great  happiness  for  me  to  serve  you,”  I an- 
swered. “And  now  if  you  please,  I will  send  Sally  to 
attend  you,”  and  to  relieve  any  further  sense  of  em- 
barrassment, I went  out  to  call  her  maid. 

It  was  more  than  an  hour  before  the  doctor  came,  and 
I was  called  in  to  explain  to  him  what  I had  done. 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


With  as  much  respect  for  my  own  judgment  as  I had 
for  his,  I told  him  in  as  few  and  simple  words  as  pos- 
sible, avoiding  even  the  explanatory  technicalities  of 
the  subject. 

“Aha,  eh-he — yes,  well;  that  was  all  right;  very 
good.  I could  not  have  done  better  myself.  I am  glad 
to  find  no  bones  broken,  only  Miss  Choteaux  you  will 
net  be  able  to  walk  for  some  time  to  come.  You  must 
not  attempt  it,  although  it  is  hardly  necessary  for  m« 
to  interdict  it,  as  the  pain  itself,  I am  sorry  to  say,  will 
keep  you  quiet.  I see,  too,  that  it  gave  you  a little 
bruise  on  the  forehead — a little  beauty  spot,  or  rather 
knot,  he-he!  I will  leave  you  emollient  for  that,  and 
by  keeping  your  ankle  tightly  bandaged,  like  it  is,  until 
the  swelling  is  all  gone  and  continuing  the  application 
of  cold  water  you  will,  in  the  course  of  a few  weeks,  be 
able  to  hop  around  on  crutches.  I know  that  it  is  hard 
on  such  a gay  spring  bird  as  you  to  be  caged  up  in 
bed  when  there  is  much  that  is  pleasant  outdoors,  but 
there  is  no  help  for  it. 7 7 And  making  out  the  prescrip- 
tion for  the  lotion  he  took  his  fee  and  with  it  his  leave. 

“Oh,  I don’t  believe  it  is  half  so  bad  as  all  that,  or 
that  I shall  have  to  lie  abed  so  long.  I am  sure  I shall 
b@  able  to  walk  in  a day  or  two.  I believe  I can  walk 
nc\V.  And  my  rides — oh,  I cannot  give  up  my  rides!77 
cried  the  young  lady  as  the  door  closed  behind  the 
doctor. 

“Well,  we  shall  see  about  the  rides,  but  you  must 
not  attempt  to  walk.  You  must  be  perfectly  quiet. 
Paul  will  fetch  a bed  in  for  me,  and  we  will  make  it  as 
pleasant  for  you  here  as  it  can  be,77  assuringly  an- 
swered her  mother. 

* ‘ Oh,  no — not  here,  mamma ; I must  go  up  to  my  own 
room  since  I must  perforce  be  caged.  I must  have  the 
bars  so  I can  see  the  glad  world  outside.  I can  see  all 
ever  the  garden,  and  the  field  beyond,  from  my  own 
windows,  but  here  I had  as  well  be  in  a prison  cell — 
no  sunshine,  nor  anything  except  the  bare  garden 
wall.” 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


81 


4 ‘ Very  well,  anywhere  that  you  wish.  Paul  can  carry 
y*u.” 

“Oh,  no.  Can’t  I lean  on  Sally’s  shoulder  and 
walk  ? ’ ’ 

“Just  try  to  move  your  foot  and  see.” 

The  experiment  was  tried  and  a cry  of  pained  dis- 
appointment was  the  result. 

“Now,  you  see  the  folly  of  trying  to  walk.  Sally, 
run  ahead  and  fix  her  bed.  Paul,  you  must  carry  her. 
You  need  not  be  afraid,  darling;  he  toted  you  in  from 
the  yard  as  easily  as  if  you  had  been  a baby.” 

She  had  not  been  dressed, — only  a dainty  night  robe 
of  snowy  whiteness  and  soft,  clinging  fabric,  by  half 
concealing  only  made  her  exquisite  loveliness  the  more 
ravishing,  and  I hesitated  a moment  in  positive  dread 
of  the  contact  before  I could  steel  my  senses  against 
it.  I saw,  though,  that  my  hesitancy  was  beginning 
to  confuse  her  and  dreading  that  my  mistress  might 
suspect  something  of  my  feelings,  I respectfully  ad- 
vanced. 

“Will  you  please  hold  to  my  shoulders,”  I asked, 
calmly  as  I could,  as  I stooped  forward  to  lift  her  in  my 
arms ; and  with  her  fair  arms  clasply  firmly  around  my 
neck,  her  beautiful  head  resting  on  my  shoulder,  and 
the  sweet  heart  fluttering  like  a bird  against  my  own,  I 
lifted  and  bore  her  to  her  room — out  into  and  down 
the  long  hall  and  up,  up  that  high  flight  of  stairs,  each 
step  of  which  seemed  to  lift  me  that  much  nearer  to 
a heaven  that  would  have  burst  my  heart  with  very  joy 
to  have  entered. 

“Thanks.  You  are  so  good  to  me,”  she  whispered, 
so  softly,  so  sweetly,  and  so  close  to  my  cheek  that  it 
seemed  almost  a caress. 

A convulsive  tightening  of  my  arms,  and  a wild 
throbbing  of  the  heart  was  all  the  ^answer  I could 
give,  as  I gently  placed  her  on  her  bed.  And  that  was 
enough,  for  it  called  a crimson  flush  to  her  neck,  her 
cheek  and  her  forehead,  as  with  a little  drooping  of  the 


82 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


eyes — shy,  timorous — she  settled  her  head  on  its  pil- 
low. 

The  mistress,  with  Winnie,  her  own  personal  maid, 
followed  in  and  began  at  once  to  make  the  room  bright. 

“May  I go  now?”  I asked  of  her. 

“Yes,  but  you  must  stay  near.  Remember  you  have 
nothing  else  to  do  but  to  wait  on  your  young  mistress. 
I relieve  you  from  all  service  down  stairs  and  you  will 
devote  your  whole  duty  to  her.  7 ’ 

“I  shall  always  be  within  call,”  I answered,  as  I 
bowed  myself  out. 

On  the  stairs  I met  the  master,  who  had  been  in  the 
woods  gunning,  and  had  just  returned  to  meet  the  ex- 
aggerated reports  of  his  daughter’s  injuries.  The 
anxious,  almost  haggard  look  of  suspense  and  dread 
I read  on  his  countenance,  told  how  much  that  beloved 
daughter  was  to  him,  and  I instinctively  shuddered  as 
I thought  of  the  vengeance  that  would  inevitably  fall 
upon  the  head  of  the  wretch  who  would  dare  to  harm 
her. 

“How  is  she,  your  Miss  Virginia?”  he  asked,  without 
pausing  for  an  answer. 

“There  is  nothing  serious — only  a sprained  ankle.” 

‘ ‘ Thank  God ! They  told  me  she  was  dying, 7 7 and  in 
he  rushed. 

I loitered  aimlessly  and  uneasily  for  a while  in  the 
hall  below,  and  then  catching  the  scent  of  early  spring 
roses  in  the  garden  I thought  that  their  beauty  and 
fragrance  would  add  a charm  to  her  room.  I hurried 
out  with  a flower  basket  to  cull  a bouquet  for  her  table. 

“I  have  brought  some  flowers  for  the  young  mis- 
tress,” I said  in  unconscious  apology  for  the  presump- 
tion, as  I offered  the  basket  to  the  mistress. 

‘ ‘ Certainly,  that  was  right.  Put  some  fresh  water  in 
the  vases,  and  let  Sally  arrange  them.  And,  now,  dar- 
ling, we  must  go  to  dinner.  How  lonesome  it  will  be 
without  you — but  never  mind,  it  won’t  be  long.  What 
is  it  nice  I must  send  you?” 

“Oh,  anything  will  do,  I am  not  a bit  hungry.” 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


83 


“Then  come,  Sally,  and  fetch  her  dinner/ ’ and  kiss- 
ing her  daughter,  the  gentle  mother  went  out  with  the 
master,  followed  by  Sally,  and  leaving  me  alove  with 
her,  who  was  all  the  world  to  me. 

“Ah,  you  brought  me  the  flowers.  How  good  of 
you  and  how  thoughtful.  Let  me  see — ah,  pretty  roses, 
and  so  sweet;  here,  give  me  one — this  one — this  Mare- 
chal  Niel,”  selecting  with  a dainty  taste  a snowy  bud. 
“Now,  will  you  arrange  them  in  the  vases  for  me?  I 
cannot  trust  awkward  Sally.  ’ ’ 

With  no  mean  taste  for  floral  effects,  I made  the  bou- 
quet, and  ■wheeling  a little  table  by  the  bed  side,  I 
placed  them  on  it. 

“Ah,  that  is  very  pretty,  and  it  was  kind  and  gallant 
in  you  to  think  of  bringing  them  for  me.  You  must 
have  known  how  dearly  I love  them?” 

“I  only  hoped  that  they  might  please  you.” 

“Yes,  they  do  please  me,  and  I thank  you  for  them. 
And  Paul,  mamma  has  told  me  how  good  you  were  to 
me— so  very,  very  good — and  I — I am  so  grateful,  ” and 
the  tears,  precious,  priceless  tears,  trembled  on  the 
long  silken  lashes. 

I could  not  trust  myself  to  speak  and  had  to  turn 
away  to  hide  my  own  perceptible  show  of  feeling. 

4 ‘ And  now,  ’ ’ she  went  on  more  brightly,  after  a sec- 
ond, “you  must  not  think  me  a baby,  only  I — I do,  do 
thank  you,  ’ ? breaking  off  with  a little  laugh,  more  akin 
to  a sob. 

The  entrance  of  Mammy  Dilsey,  followed  by  Winnie 
and  Sally,  all  three  loaded  with  dainties  for  her  dinner, 
relieved  me  from  a reply,  and  I hurried  out  to  fetch  a 
little  round  dining  table  for  her. 

Her  mother,  still  anxious,  hurried  her  own  dinner  to 
come  back. 

“How  is  your  dinner,  sweet?”  she  asked,  fondly  pat- 
ting the  beautiful  head. 

“It  is  very  nice,  and  I was  more  hungry  than  I 
thought.  I have  made  a voracious  meal  of  it. ? * 


84 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


‘ ‘ I am  glad  that  you  did ; and,  now,  what  next  do  you 
want.  We  must  try  to  amuse  you.  ’ 9 

“I  hardly  know.  I shall  miss  my  ride.  Oh,  you 
don’t  know  how  pleasant  my  rides  are  getting  to  be !” 

“ Yes,  I can  imagine  how  pleasant  it  must  be  this  de- 
lightful weather.  But  you  mustn’t  fret,  but  get  well  as 
soon  as  you  can,  that  you  may  ride  again,”  encourag- 
ingly smiled  the  mother.  “We  must  devise  some  other 
divertisement  for  you.  What  shall  it  be,  darling?” 

“I  cannot  imagine  anything  half  so  pleasant  as  rid- 
ing,” a little  dolefully,  and  then  brightening  up,  “un- 
less it  be,  as,  let  me  see — oh,  yes,  I will  tell  you,  mamma 
— it  be  reading.” 

“Ah,  yes,  that  will  be  nice.  I will  send  tomorrow  for 
Miss  Fouche  to  read  for  you.  She  will  be  very  glad  to 
come.  I had  a note  from  her  yesterday  asking  for  some 
kind  of  employment.  They  are  very  poor,  you  know, 
and  I should  like  very  much  to  help  them.  ’ ’ 

“Yes,  do  help  them,  mamma.  Send  her  the  salary, 
but  do  not  let  her  come— at  least,  just  now.  Somehow  I 
do  not  like  Miss  Fouche.” 

“Very  well,  then,  I shall  not  have  her.  But,  dar- 
ling, whom  shall  I get  ? ’ ’ 

“I  will  tell  you,  mamma;  it  is  a secret  that  I have 
found  out.  Paul,  there,  says  he  can  read.  Will  you 
have  him  to  try,  and  maybe  he  can  read  for  me?” 

“Oh,  yes,  of  course;  make  him  do  anything  you  like. 
How  is  it,  Paul?”  aswecj.  the  mistress,  picking  up  a little 
book  of  poems  from  the  writing  table,  and  turning  t© 
3*1  e.  “Here,  let  me  hear  you  try  to  read.” 

I reached  for  the  book.  It  was  a volume  of  Bryant’s 
poems,  his  latest,  and  by  chance  I opened  it  at  that 
spirited  piece,  “The  African  Chief,”  and  with  all  the 
energy  and  grace  of  inflection  and  tone  of  which  I was 
master,  I read  it. 

“That  is  well  enough,”  said  the  mistress,  as  finish- 
ing, I closed  the  book  and  awaited  her  judgment.  “You 
read  surprisingly  well,  but  I do  not  think  your  master 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


would  approve,  or  even  allow  such — such,  well  I ma y 
say  such  incendiary  matter.” 

“Oh,  I think  it  is  very  sad,”  gently  protested  the 
young  mistress. 

“It  was  a chance  selection  altogether.  I had  never 
seen  the  poem  before,”  I apologized. 

“Perhaps  not,  but  it  is  unsuitable  for  you.  The  poem 
may  do  very  well  for  those  who  can  appreciate  its 
maudlin  sentimentality  and  understand  its  falsity,  but 
it  is  not  such  matter  as  a negro  should  read.  Let  me 
see — who  is  it  you  read  from  ? ’ ’ 

“From  William  Cullen  Bryant,”  I answered,  hand- 
ing her  the  book. 

“No,”  drawing  back  from  the  book,  “I  do  not  care 
to  see  it.  Put  it  on  the  hearth  there  and  burn  it  up. 
Virginia,  I must  interdict  the  reading  of  Bryant.  You 
must  have  no  more  of  him.  There,  that  is  right,  Paul,  ’ 9 
as  obeying  her  order  I struck  a match  and  applying  it 
to  the  crisp  leaves  of  the  book,  placed  it  on  the  hearth, 
where  it  soon  crackled  into  ashes. 

“I  do  not  object  to  the  English  poets,”  continued 
the  censor,  “or  to  our  own  Southern  poets,  Poe,  or 
Pinckney,  or  Eequir,  or  Flash,  or  Meek,  but  I cannot 
permit  those  wretched  abolitionists  to  inject  their  fa- 
natic poison  in  my  household.” 

“But,  mamma,  you  needed  not  to  burn  the  book.  I 
as  sure  that  Paul  has  the  good  sense  to  discriminate 
between  the  poison  and  the  honey,”  again  protested 
the  daughter. 

“But  when  there  is  honey  without  the  poison,  one 
had  better  always  take  it.” 

“If  you  please,  mistress,”  I said,  “I  understand  that 
poem,  its  animus  and  its  object.  It  is,  as  you  say, 
poison,  not  intended  to  excite  the  negro,  but  to  preju- 
dice the  minds  of  a class  of  whites  as  ignorant  them- 
selves as  the  negro.  I know  enough  about  the  history 
of  my  race  to  know  that  such  a story  as  this  is  impos- 
sible. I know,  too,  that  the  most  abject  slave  in  the 
South  is  infinitely  better  off  than  the  most  powerful 


86 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


barbarian  chief  in  Africa.  It  is  a boast  of  my  mother’s 
—not  of  mine — that  my  own  grandfather  was  a chief, 
the  son  of  a king,  and  I trust  you  will  believe  me  sin- 
cere when  I say  that  so  far  as  my  own  life  is  concerned, 
so  far  as  it  be  good  for  me  to  live  at  all,  I am  thankful 
to  the  Providence,  or  fate,  or  destiny,  whichever  you 
may  call  it,  that  made  me  a slave,  and  gave  me  such 
a mistress.  I had  rather  be  the  slave  I am  than  to  be 
the  king  of  the  Zululand,  itself. ’ ’ 

4 ‘ That  is  right.  I should  have  known  you  had  better 
sense  than  to  be  moved  by  the  heroics  of  a crazy  poet. 
I am  glad  that  you  do  understand  and  will  leave  Vir- 
ginia free  to  have  you  read  what  she  thinks  will  best 
amuse  her.  You  can  go,  now,  and  get  your  dinner  and 
then  come  back  to  Virginia,’5  and  with  a gracious  wave 
©f  the  hand,  I was  dismissed. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


A SYMPATHETIC  AUDITOR. 


“What  is  it  I shall  read?”  I asked  as  I reported  af- 
ter dinner  for  orders. 

“Yon  said  you  liked  Shakespeare  best  of  all.  You 
may  read  Shakespeare,  ’ 9 wa«  the  gracious  command. 

I hurried  down  to  the  library  for  the  book  and  was 
soon  back  ready  for  service. 

“You  may  sit,  if  you  wish.  I do  not  mind,”  she 
kindly  said  as  I took  my  stand  by  the  window  near 
the  head  of  her  bed. 

“It  is  best  that  I stand,”  I answered,  not  yet  bold 
enough  to  venture  such  a liberty.  “What  story  may  I 
read?” 

“We  were  discussing  ‘ Othello’  the  other  day;  read 
‘Othello’.” 

In  my  happiest  vein  I read  the  story,  not  pausing 
once  to  watch  its  effect  upon  my  sweet  auditor,  and 
after  I had  finished  I stood  silent  a moment  before  she 
spoke. 

“That  was  all  very  sad.  Poor  Desdemona,  I know 
not  whether  most  to  blame  or  pity  her.  What  a mad- 
dening thing  love  must  surely  be,  ’ 9 she  softly  said. 

The  ground,  the  crumbling  brink,  upon  which  I was 
standing  was  too  dangerous  for  me  to  offer  to  speak 
and  closing  the  book  I turned  to  the  window  to  hide  the 
expression  of  my  countenance  that  it  would  have  been 
imprudent  for  her  to  see. 

“You  are  tired  standing  still  so  long  and  wish  to 
walk.  You  may  go  now.  I must  thank  you,  though.  I 
enjoyed  your  reading  as  well  as  I could  have  enjoyed 
a ride.  After  supper  you  must  come  back  to  me.  I 

87 


88 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


want  to  hear  you  read  again,  and  to  talk.  It  is  the 
evenings  I dread  more  than  anything  else,  and  without 
my  music  to  divert  me  I do  not  see  how  I can  endure 
them.  Somehow  they  are  bringing  so  many  strange 
and  disquieting  fancies — silly  thoughts  and  almost 
wicked.  You  must  help  me  to  drive  them  away.’ ’ 

“I  shall  be  very  glad  if  I can  amuse  you,”  I an- 
swered. 

“Yes,  you  can.  So  come  directly  after  you  have  had 
your  supper.  I do  not  wish  to  worry  my  sweet  mamma, 
and  papa  will  want  to  smoke  until  bedtime — so  I will 
have  to  rely  upon  you  to  keep  away  the  blues,”  and 
with  a kindly  smike,  she  nodded  for  me  to  go. 

In  order  to  divert  her  thoughts  from  the  sorrowing 
and  puzzling  sympathy  with  the  sad  fate  of  the  gentle 
Desdemona,  I thought  to  find  something  if  not  less 
heroic,  at  least  less  saddening  in  its  afterthoughts,  and 
to  that  end  selected  some  early  English  translations  of 
the  “Stories  Miletus,”  for  the  evening’s  reading. 

I said  heroic,  for  somehow,  in  a kind  of  blind,  in- 
tuitive selfishness,  common  in  fact  to  us  all,  I wished  to 
feed  her  imagination  upon  fancies  and  stories  of  heroic 
achievements,  of  manly  daring  and  fortitude,  of 
strength  and  God-like  powers — for  in  all  these  physical 
attributes  of  heroism,  I felt  myself  a man.  It  was  all 
I had  to  commend  me,  my  tremendous  strength,  my 
powerful  physique,  my  agile,  gainly  motion,  and  strong, 
shapely  limbs. 

Slight  wonder  is  it  then,  that  I in  a natural,  albeit 
selfish,  wish  to  appear  to  my  best  before  her  whom  I 
loved  with  all  the  strength  of  my  being,  I should  select 
for  my  themes  stories  in  which  I myself,  negro,  slave 
that  I was,  could  have  figured  as  the  hero,  and  stories, 
too,  that  would  leave  no  sombre  aftermath  of  reflections 
to  darken  the  brightness  of  their  suggestions. 

My  selection  for  this  evening  was  a happy  one,  and  * 
when  after  an  hour’s  pleasant  reading  I left  her  to  sleep 
and  to  dream,  she  was  smiling  over  the  cunning  roguery 
©f  Sisyphus  instead  of  crying  over  his  unending  task. 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


80 


Her  injuries  were  not,  in  truth,  so  severe  as  the  doctor 
had  said,  and  the  next  morning  by  leaning  on  Sally’s 
broad  shoulder,  she  was  able  to  move  about  her  room 
and  in  the  afternoon,  when  her  crutches  came  she 
could  explore  the  entire  length  of  the  upper  hall. 

And  then  the  morning  after,  she  insisted  upon  dress- 
ing and  venturing  down  to  breakfast,  and  I was  called 
to  lift  her  down  the  stairs,  her  mother  utterly  refusing 
to  allow  her  to  make  the  venture  on  the  steps. 

As  lightly  as  before  and  with  less  trepidation,  I lifted 
her  in  my  arms  and  carried  her  softly  down. 

“Oh,  that  is  so  pleasant/’  she  smiled  as  I steadied 
her  a second  to  adjust  her  crutches. 

After  breakfast  she  fluttered  about  the  house  for  a 
while  like  a wounded  bird  and  then  I was  called  to 
carry  her  back  to  her  room  again. 

Again  it  was  like  mounting  the  golden  stairs  as  I 
strained  her  yielding  form  to  my  breast  and  fancied 
that  I could  feel  a responsive  clasp  clinging  lingeringly 
to  my  neck  as  I put  her  down. 

“Now  read  me  something  pleasant,  something  in 
lighter  vein.  I am  feeling  too  buoyant  for  tragedy  this 
morning/’  she  said,  her  cheeks  glowing  with  the  color 
of  roses. 

“How  will  the  ‘ Comedy  of  Errors’  do,  or  the  ‘ Taming 
of  the  Shrew/ — which  shall  it  be?”  I asked  opening 
the  volume. 

“Oh,  the  two  Dromeos,  I like  them  best  of  all.  ‘The 
Shrew’  is  too  tame.  Do  you  know  I think  Kate  a 
travesty  upon  womanly  spirit.  No  man  could  subdue 
me  with  such  a loonish  petulence  of  temper.  I should 
require  something  more  manly,  a masterful  strength 
of  arm  as  well  as  of  will.  Katharina  was  a chit  and 
Petruchio  a brawling  fop.  Let  us  have  the  ‘ Comedy  of 
Errors’,”  she  said. 

With  as  much  spirit  as  I could  throw  into  the  sub- 
ject I read  the  charming  farce,  receiving  for  the  service 
a little  fusilade  of  vivas,  which  I acknowledged  with 
a gallant  obeisance. 


90 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


Dinner-time  I again  carried  her  down,  bodily  in  my 
arms  and  my  poor  heart  leaped  into  my  throat  almost 
choking  me  with  its  wild  delirium  of  passion  as  I felt 
the  warm  soft  bloom  of  her  cheek  nestling  against  my 
own.  It  was  a torture  to  keep  from  turning  my  face 
and  dashing  burning  kisses  upon  the  melting  lips  so 
dangerously  near,  but  with  a nerve  of  steely  I choked 
back  my  heart  and  without  daring  to  once  look  in 
her  eyes  I gently  steadied  her  on  her  feet  and  turned 
quickly  away. 

After  bolting  my  dinner  in  my  eagerness  to  again 
serve  my  divinity,  I stationed  myself  near  the  stairs 
in  the  hall  in  eager  anticipation  of  the  happiness  of 
holding  her  once  more  in  my  arms. 

But  she  did  not  come.  Perhaps  she  too  had  felt  some- 
thing of  the  danger  and  wiser  than  I had  drawn  back. 
I waited  with  something,  like  angry  impatience  for 
more  than  an  hour,  and  then  with  a presumption  that 
would  have  appalled  me  the  day*  before,  I turned  for 
the  first  time  to  seek  her — for  the  first  time  to  intrude 
myself  unbidden  upon  her  presence. 

I found  her  on  the  front  portico.  A low,  easy  couch 
had  been  wheeled  out  into  the  genial  sunlight  for  her 
comfort,  and  she  was  sitting  with  her  wounded  foot 
resting  on  a little  mound  of  downy  pillows. 

“What  is  it  you  want?”  she  asked  with  a little  touch 
@f  hauteur  in  her  tone,  as  I stood  before  her. 

“If  you  please,  I came  to  see  if  I could  serve  you,”  I 
answered  with  an  apologetic  bow. 

“No — when  I want  you  I will  have  you  called.  You 
ean  go  back  to  your  work.  You  must  not  forget  your 
place  and  presume  too  much  upon  my  condescension. 
You  can  go.” 

I was  more  astounded  than  hurt  at  this  sudden 
change  in  a manner  always  generous  and  kind,  and  sad- 
ly puzzled  what  to  make  of  it  I turned  away. 

She  did  not  go  up  to  her  room  that  afternoon,  nor 
evening  until  she  was  ready  to  retire,  and  then  she 
had  Joe  called  to  carry  her  up.  It  was  with  a grim, 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


91 


spiteful  delight  that  I stood  on  the  dark  porch  without 
and  peered  through  the  sidelights  of  tlm  hall  door  to 
watch  the  awkward,  staggering  steps  the  fellow  made 
as  he  tottered  under  the  weight  of  his  heavy  load.  Toil- 
ing, panting,  up,  up,  up,  pausing  at  each  step  to  gather 
strength  for  the  next  until  exhausted  an  unlucky  trip  at 
the  top  plunged  him  with  his  helpless  charge  downward 
— tumbling  bump,  bump,  over  and  over  like  harlequins 
in  a pantomime,  until  they  reached  the  landing  below. 

The  cries  of  the  young  mistress,  the  grunts  of  Joe 
and  the  screaming  of  Sally  who  had  been  following  up 
close  after  them,  and  was  now  perched  astride  the  ban- 
ister, whither  she  had  scrambled  to  clear  the  way  for  the 
down-tumbling  avalanche,  brought  the  startled  house- 
hold out  in  a wild  alarm. 

My  own  heart  fluttered  in  pained  suspense,  as  I too 
rushed  forward  to  the  young  mistress’  help.  My  hand 
was  the  first  to  reach  her,  and  gathering  Joe,  who  had 
fallen  prone  across  the  young  lady’s  breast  and  was 
smothering  the  breath  out  of  her,  by  the  nape  of  his 
neck  and  the  belt  of  his  trousers  I gave  him  a piteh 
that  landed  him  like  . a chunk  half  way  across  the  hall, 
and  then  I lifted  her  to  a seat  on  the  steps  and  looked  to 
my  master  for  further  orders. 

Happily  she  was  not  hurt,  for  Joe,  to  give  him  credit, 
with  a frantic  energy  had  softened  each  bump  so  far 
as  possible,  and  now  that  the  fright  was  over  the  lu- 
dicrousness of  the  situation  came  flashing  over  her 
mind ; and  hushing  her  cries,  she  burst  out  into  merry 
peals  of  laughter. 

The  laugh  was  a glad  relief  to  all ; but  the  master  was 
not  so  merry. 

“I  am  glad  that  you  are  not  hurt,  but  it  is  nothing 
to  laugh  at.  I have  a great  mind  to  give  Joe  a thrash- 
ing for  his  awkwardness,”  he  said  sternly. 

“Oh,  no,  papa,”  sobered  by  the  angry  threat.  “It 
was  not  his  fault,  he  really  is  not  strong  enough.  I 
ought  to  have  supported  myself  when  I felt  his  strength 
giving  way,  but  I — I didn’t  think  that  I was  so  heavy. 


92 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


Please  don’t  blame  Joe,  papa,  he  could  not  help  it  and 
I am  not  hurt  a bit,  and  oh,  it  was  so  ridiculous — and 
Sally,  there  scrambling  over  the  banister  to  get  out  of 
our  way. 5 ’ 

“ You  had  no  business  to  trust  yourself  to  Joe.  Paul 
should  have  carried  you.  Paul,  I have  a great  mind  t* 
buck  you  down  and  give  you  fifty  lashes  for  not  at- 
tending to  your  business,  you  lazy  scoundrel,  you, 9 9 said 
the  master  turning  fiercely  to  me. 

“I  am  sorry — ” I commenced  when  he  imperiously 
stopped  me. 

“Hush  your  mouth,  none  of  your  impudence,  or  I 
shall  knock  you  down.  Lift  her  up  now  and  carry  her 
to  her  room  and  let  us  see  how  badly  she  is  hurt.  Joe, 
you  had  better  send  Dick  for  Dr.  Blue.” 

“Oh,  no,  papa;  you  are  mistaken.  I am  really  not 
hurt  at  all.  See  here,”  thrusting  out  her  foot,  “I  can 
twist  my  ankle  without  the  least  bit  of  trouble  or  pain. 
Please  do  not  be  angry,  papa;  it  was  ail  so  funny.” 

“Yes,  dear.  Never  mind  it  now;  there  is  no  harm 
done.  Take  her  up,  Paul,”  interrupted  the  mistress, 
after  assuring  herself  by  a loving  pat  of  the  wounded 
foot  that  it  was  indeed  not  hurt. 

I stooped  and  lifted  her  up,  not  claspingly  as  before, 
but  slipping  my  hands  under  her  as  she  sat  and  making 
a kind  of  chair  of  my  arms  I raised  her  up  and  holding 
my  face  aside  I carried  her  safely  up  to  her  room. 

“Ah,  this  is  so  much  better,”  she  said  as  I sat  her  on 
her  lounge.  “I  ought  to  have  known  that  poor  Joe 
could  not  carry  me,  and  do  you  know,”  she  added 
brightly,  “ that  I was  thinking  of  old  Sisyphus  and  his 
stone  all  the  time  that  Joe  was  tugging  me  up  the  steps 
— and  then  to  cap  the  climax,  just  as  he  reached  the  top 
he  had  to  slip  back  and  here  we  went  tumbling  down 
again  just  for  all  the  world  like  old  Sisyphus  and  his 
stone.  Poor  Joe,  he  was  hurt  much  worse  than  I.  It 
was  mean  in  you  to  pitch  him  so  hard  across  the  floor.” 

“Yes,  miss,  I am  sorry  I touched  him.  Have  you 
any  further  use  for  me,  now?” 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


93 


“No,  you  may  go — only,  Paul,”  softly,  as  I turned  to 
go,  “it  was  foolish  in  me  to  be  angry  with  you  today — 
you  must  not  mind  it.  Now,  you  may  go.” 

The  next  morning  the  mistress  called  me.  “Paul,  go 
up  and  see  if  your  Miss  Virginia  will  come  down  to 
breakfast,  and  if  she  will,  you  must  fetch  her.  I want 
no  more  nonsense  with  Joe.” 

I found  her  ready  for  breakfast.  She  was  charming- 
ly dressed  in  some  dainty  summer  fabric,  and  never 
before  had  she  looked  so  bewitchingly  lovely. 

“If  you  please,  miss,  my  mistress  has  sent  me  to  see  if 
you  will  go  down  for  breakfast,”  I said. 

“Yes,  I was  waiting  for  someone  to  come  to  help 
me.” 

“Mistress  is  afraid  to  trust  you  again  with  Joe  and 
she  sent  me.” 

“And  it  was  you  I wanted.  You  should  have  come 
without  waiting  to  be  told.” 

“Then  I— I must  beg  your  pardon,  but  you  told  me 
yesterday  never  to  come  unless  called.  ’ 9 

“Yes,  yes — so  I did;  but  I was  silly  yesterday — upset 
and  out  of  humor.  I must  ask  you  to  forgive  me,  ” and, 
as  if  in  penitential  assurance,  she  reached  up  her  arms 
for  me  to  take  her. 

I stooped  with  a respectful  courtesy  and  lifting  her, 
carried  her  safely  down,  Sally  going  ahead  with  the 
crutches. 

“I  must  thank  you — your  strength  is  so — so  exhil- 
arating. Come  to  the  library  after  you  have  had  break- 
fast and  we  will  read  there,”  she  said  with  a kindly 
smile,  as  she  turned  into  the  dining  hall. 

When  I went  into  the  library  I found  her  waiting. 

“We  must  have  something  light  today,  some  simple 
love  story,”  she  said,  as  I halted  for  a suggestion. 

Quite  by  chance  I took  down  the  first  book  I touched. 

“Ah,  here  is  something  if  you  have  never  read  it,” 
I ventured,  “the  West  India  story,  ‘Paul  and  Vir- 
ginia ’ 

“Yes,  I have  heard  mamma  tell  it. 


Read  it.  It 


94 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


be  nice  I am  sure,”  and  thus  enjoined  I took  my  place 
at  the  window  and  began. 

Those  who  have  been  charmed  with  the  simple  story 
of  the  castaways  can  understand  how  it  was  that  dinner 
was  announced  before  we  had  thought  of  the  lapse  of 
the  moments. 

‘ ‘ Oh,  is  it  that  late,  and  I have  kept  you  standing  all 
this  long  time.  That  is  really  too  bad.  You  shall  sit 
the  next  time — I shall  command  it,”  she  said  as  the 
announcement  of  dinner  recalled  her  to  the  hour. 

"As  soon  as  you  have  dined  come  back  and  finish  it 
for  me,  I could  not  sleep  without  hearing  the  last  of 
it,  ’ ’ she  called  as  she  went  out. 

It  took  but  a short  while  after  dinner  to  finish  the 
story. 

“I  am  sorry  it  turns  out  so  sadly.  What  a pity ! Why 
is  it  that  such— such  unequal  or  misplaced  love  always 
turns  out  so  sadly?”  she  asked. 

“I  do  not  know,  I am  sure,  unless  it  be  that  sorrow 
and  suffering  are  the  price  that  must  be  paid  for  ~all 
that  is  best  and  sweetest  in  life,”  I answered. 

"It  is  all  a perplexity,”  she  said  soberly,  and  then 
reaching, for  her  crutch  (she  had  discarded  one  and  was 
beginning  to  take  little  steps  with  only  one),  she 
added,  "Let  us  go  into  the  gallery,  I wish  to  see  the 
pictures.” 

The  gallery  was  quite  an  extensive  one,  and  besides 
the  family  portraits  contained  a number  of  rare  and 
valuable  paintings. 

After  looking  idly  over  these  for  awhile,  she  turned 
to  the  portraits,  where  gazing  with  puzzled  wonder  for 
a moment  upon  one,  she  suddenly  turned  to  me  with  a 
scrutinizing  glance  in  my  face. 

"Ah,  I think  I have  found  it  at  least,”  she  cried  ex- 
citedly. "I  have  been  so  strangely  puzzled  to  know 
what  it  was  about  you  that  seemed  so — so — so  familiar, 
— that  made  you  more  to  me  than  any  other  man — or 
negro  man  I mean.  Here,  look  at  this  picture.  It  is 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


95 


the  portrait  of  my  Uncle  Jules,  painted  the  year  he 
died.  Is  it  not  wondrously  like  you?” 

. 4 4 There  is  a resemblance,”  I answered  evasively. 

4 4 But  isn't  it  strange.  You — you  surely  comprehend 
it.” 

4 4 The  resemblance  or  the  cause?”  I asked. 

4 4 The  resemblance,  of  course — there  can  be  no  cause 
for  it, 9 9 she  answered  quickly. 

4 4 Perhaps  not.” 

4 4 What  do  you  mean?” 

44I  mean  that  there  is  no  accounting  for  the  strange 
coincidences  that  are  sometimes  found  in  nature.” 

4 4 Is  this  only  a coincidence?”  she  asked  a little  sober- 

iy- 

44I  may  not  presume  to  say.” 

4 4 But  that  is  no  answer.  You  should  not  be  im- 
pertinent. Tell  me,  what  do  you  argue  from  this 
strange  resemblance?”  she  demanded  with  a little 

scorn. 

4 4 Since  you  so  imperiously  demand  it,  I will  tell  you. 
That  is  the  portrait  of  my  father,  ’ 9 I said  unconsciously 
answering  her  scorn. 

4 4 Oh,  no,  no !”  she  cried  in  indignant  protest  against 
the  assumption,  4 4 that  cannot  be.  You  are  bold — you 
are  insolent — to  think  so.  You  are  impudent  to  say 
so.” 

4 4 My  features  must  speak  for  themselves,”  I an- 
swered a little  proudly  as  catching  the  attitude  and  ex- 
pression of  the  portrait,  I thrust  one  hand  in  the  bosom 
of  my  coat  and  looked  her  quietly  in  the  face. 

4 4 Yes,  yes,  I know,  the  favor  is  there,*  but  I do  not 
believe  it.” 

4 4 Nor  should  you  believe  it.  I *am  sorry  that  you 
should  ever  suspect  it,  ” I answered. 

4 4 And  you  tell  me  this — and  you  have  known  it  all 
the  while?  How,  how  do  you  know  it?” 

4 4 By  the  truth  I have  always  found  in  my  mother.” 

4 4 Your  mother!  the  negro  strumpet.  And  she  has 
the  shameless  audacity  to  boast  of  this?”  she  fiercely 


96 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


interrupted  with  flashing  eyes  and  cheeks  red  with 
anger. 

4 'No,  Miss  Virginia,  she  never  boasted.  She  thought, 
perhaps,  that  it  was  at  least  my  right  to  know,  and  she 
told  me — told  me  and  no  one  else.  I do  not  believe 
there  is  another  living  soul  that  knows.  I am  sorry 
that  this  chance  has  revealed  it  to  you.#  There  was 
nothing  to  boast  of,  no  name,  no  honor,  no  fortune, 
nothing  save  the  strength  of  which  he  himself  was  so 
proud,  and  which  is  all  my  own  without  boasting.  Since 
some  one  had  to  be  my  father,  I mean  since  it  wras  de- 
creed that  I was  to  have  a being,  I am  glad  that  it  was 
through  the  loins  of  such  a man  I came,  not  because  of 
the  individual  man— not  because  he  was  a Choteaux — 
but  because  of  his  race,  because  he  was  a Caucasian,  and 
being  one,  made  me  at  least  a degree  above  a negro.77 

"A  mongrel/7  she  scornfully  interjected. 

"Yes,  mongrel,  if  you  please,  with  a chance  to  inherit 
something  of  the  virtues  of  my  father,  even  though 
tainted  with  the  dark  blood  of  my  mother.  But  I re- 
peat I am  sorry  that  you  have  discovered  my  secret. 
Will  you  let  me  beg  you  never  to  let  any  one  else 
know  ? 7 7 

"I  shall  not  be  likely  to  speak  of  such  a thing,  even 
though  I were  satisfied  of  its  truth,77  she  said  haugh- 
tily— and  then  as  suddenly  softening  she  asked,  "but 
your  mother : who  is  your  mother  ? 7 7 

"Not  a common  strumpet,  Miss  Virginia,  as  you 
charge,  although  the  concubine  of  her  master,  but  a 
woman  who  so  jealously  guards  the  royal  blood  she  in- 
herits from  her  father  and  mother  that  she  scorned  to 
let  it  once  mingle  with  that  of  negro.77 

"Royal  blood?  That7s  a little  grandiloquent.77 

"It  is  true,  nevertheless;  but  if  it  displeases  you  to 
hear  I had  better  be  silent.77 

"No,  tell  me.  Since  your  insolence  persists  in  estabr 
lishing  our  kinship,  I am  curious  to  know  all  about 
you.  It  may  be  a compensation  to  know  that  I am  first 
cousin  to  a prince  of  the  royal  blood.77 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


s n 


“The  kinship  is  not  of  my  making,  nor  seeking,”  I 
answered,  stung  to  the  bitter  by  her  sarcasm. 

“Never  mind  the  kinship.  I was  only  jesting.” 

“Very  well.  It  is  proper  matter  for  jesting.  I shall 
certainly  never  presume  upon  it,  even  in  jest.” 

“Of  course  not.  You  had  better  never  dare  such  a 
presumption.  But  what  of  your  mother’s  royal  blood ! ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ It  was  rightfully  hers.  Her  father  and  her  mother 
were  the  children  of  a king,  not  a chief,  but  the  king  of 
chiefs.  It  may  shock  you  to  know  also  that  they  were 
brother  and  sister.” 

“Oh,  horror!” 

“No,  not  horror;  incestuous  as  it  is  by  civilized  law, 
it  is  still  the  law  in  Africa,  as  it  once  was  in  the  East, 
and  even  in  the  days  of  the  Patriarchs.  Abraham  mar- 
ried his  sister  Sarah;  Cleopatra,  the  famous  queen  of 
Egypt,  was  not  only  the  daughter  of  such  a marriage, 
but  she  was  herself  married  to  her  brother;  and  as  it 
was  then  with  princes  of  the  East,  so  it  is  still  with 
the  heirs  to  the  kingdoms  of  Africa.  To  preserve  the 
purity  of  the  dynasty  the  children  of  the  king  must 
intermarry.  My  mother’s  father  was  the  heir  to  his 
father’s  throne.  He  married  his  sister  and  of  them  my 
mother  was  born.  ’ ’ 

“Ah,  quite  a romance  you  have  woven  around  the 
geological  tree,  and  I suppose  it  is  from  this  long  line 
of  pure,  thoroughbred  African  kings  that  you  inherit 
your  magnificent  strength?”  she  asked  saucily. 

“No,  I inherit  their  skin,  the  accursed  mark  of  Ham. 
My  strength  comes  from  my  father  and  his  father,  the 
Choteaux.  ’ ’ 

She  gave  a little  shrug  of  her  shoulders  and  casting 
a quick  glance  up  at  the  portrait,  which,  had  it  been 
in  crayon  instead  of  colors,  would  have  passed  for  my 
own,  she  turned  away. 

That  evening  she  did  not  ask  my  help  up  the  stairs, 
but  leaning  on  the  shoulder  of  Sally,  she  made  her  own 
way.  I was  almost  glad  that  she  did. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


THE  MOTH  LINGERS. 


She  had  discarded  her  crutch  and  was  standing,  a 
little  tremulously,  on  her  foot,  the  next  morning  when 
I went  in  to  take  her  down  to  breakfast. 

“Ah,  a prince  of  the  royal  house  of  Gooragoora- 
boora,”  she  said  with  a mock  courtesy,  very  charming 
notwithstanding  its  insulting  irony.  “And  what  is  it 
your  royal  highness  will  condescend  to  have  ? ’ ’ 

“I  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  incur  your  displeasure 
yesterday  morning,  by  not  coming  in  time  to  carry  you 
down  the  steps.  I hope  I have  not  offended  again/  * I 
answered  a little  stiffly. 

“Oh!  but  you  were  not  a prince,  then.  I cannot  ex- 
pect such  a service  now.  Fortunately,  I do  not  longer 
need  help,  or  I should  have  to  find  someone  else.  You 
need  not  trouble  yourself  to  come  any  more.”  And 
dropping  the  tone  of  irony,  she  imperiously  waved  me 
back  with  her  hand.  “You  may  go. ’ ’ 

Hardly  knowing  whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry  I went 
away  to  give  the  matter  more  rational  thought,  and  re- 
solved at  last  to  put  an  end  to  this  maddening  folly  by 
asking  my  master  to  send  me  back  to  the  plantation.  I 
had  seen  enough  of  the  family  management  to  learn 
that  my  mistress  was  really  the  master,  and  that  her 
will  in  the  matter  would  be  the  law.  As  soon,  then  as 
her  breakfast  was  finished,  I sought  her  in  her  room. 
The  master  had  gone  out,  but  the  young  mistress  was 
with  her. 

“Well,  Paul,  what  is  it  you  want?”  she  asked,  as  I 
bowred  before  her,  hat  in  hand. 

98 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


99 


“Mistress,”  I answered,  in  my  most  appealing  tone, 
“I  come  to  beg  a great  kindness  of  you.” 

“Well,  haven’t  I always  been  kind  to  you,  Paul?” 

“Yes,  madam,  always  the  kindest  mistress  in  all  the 
world,  and  I shall  never  forget  your  goodness — and  it 
is  that  that  emboldens  me  to  come.” 

“Well,  what  is  it  you  want?” 

“If  you  please,  I want  you  to  send  me  back  to  the 
plantation?” 

“Back  to  the  plantation?”  she  repeated,  in  astonish- 
ment. “What  an  idea!  You  are  the  first  negro  I ever 
saw  who  wanted  to  give  up  the  good  things  of  the  white 
house  for  the  plantation.  Surely,  boy,  you  must  be 
crazy.  ’ ’ 

“Oh,  no,  mistress,  not  crazy,  but  in  my  best  senses.  I 
pray  you  to  let  me  go.” 

‘ ‘ Why  ? Have  you  a wench  there  that  you  are  think- 
ing of?  Tut,  tut,  boy- — you  must  get  over  that.  There 
are  girls  plenty  here  that  will  suit  you  much  better. 
Here  is  Winnie,  there,”  smilingly  pointing  to  the  sim- 
pering maid,  “a  buxom,  bouncing  heifer  who  is  itching 
for  just  such  a fellow.  You  may  have  her.  Or  may 
be,”  and  a little  frown  took  the  place  of  the  smile, 
“you’ve  been  nest-finding  already  and  want  to  get 
away  before  it  is  found  out.  Is  that  it  ? ” 

“No,  madam ; there  is  no  heifer  in  the  case,  nor  wench 
either,  if  you  please.  I only  think  that  as  a negro  I am 
better  suited  for  the  plantation  than  the  service  I have 
to  perform  here,”  I started  when  she  interrupted. 

“Tut,  tut,  this  is  all  nonsense.  I can’t  spare  you, 
Paul.  Who  will  I ever  get  to  rub  my  back  and  my  feet 
and  knees  lifie  you?  There  is  no  one  else  can  do  it. 
And  who  would  wait  upon  your  Miss  Virginia?  Sup- 
pose you  had  not  been  here,  who  could  have  lifted  her 
about  as  you  did?  And  then  there  is  your  master,  I 
am  sure  he  could  not  do  without  you.  I heard  him  say 
only  last  night  that  he  wouldn’t  take  two  thousand 
dollars  for  you,  and  do  you  suppose  he  would  let  a two 
thousand-dollar  negro  run  to  seed  on  a plantation,  when 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 

a common  moke  would  do  as  well  ? No,  Paul,  you  must 
not  think  any  more  of  such  an  impossible  thing.  You 
cannot  go.  You  couldn’t  give  him  up  yourself,  could 
you,  darling?”  turning  to  her  daughter. 

Naturally  I glanced  in  the  face  of  the  young  mistress 
to  catch  her  answer,  but  was  unable  to  read  the 
troubled  expression  of  her  countenance. 

“I  do  not* know,  mamma,”  at  last  she  spoke.  “Paul 
has  been  very  kind  to  me,  and  very  useful,  and  al- 
though I sometimes  have  to  get  very  angry  with  him, 
I — I do  not  believe  that — that — oh,  I cannot  decide, 
mamma. ’ 9 

“Angry  with  him?  Paul,  how  is  this!  Do  you  ever 
dare  to  vex  your  mistress?”  turning  frowningly  to  me. 

‘ 4 Oil,  no,  mamma.  It  was  all  my  fault,  and  he  was 
right.  But  I must  tell  you.  I wanted  to  make  Dido 
jump  the  Ball  Cave  and  he  wouldn’t  let  me.  He 
caught  my  bridle  and  held  me  back,  and  I lashed  him 
in  the  face  with  my  whip  to  make  him  leave  off,  but 
he  would  not  and  I had  to  cry  with  anger.  But  it  was 
well  that  he  did  not  let  me  have  my  wa y,  for  Dido 
could  not  have  made  the  leap  and  we  both  might  have 
been  killed.  I saw  it  all  afterwards  and  was  very 
sorry  for  my  cruel  injustice,  but  I was  furiously  an- 
gry then.  It  is  only  because  he  is  so  strong  and  master- 
ful and  won’t  always  let  me  do  as  I please.” 

“You  are  a silly  child  and  I fear  a little  spoiled  by 
over-indulgence.  And  I am  glad  that  Paul  has  the 
good  sense  not  to  mind  your  tantrums.  You  need  just 
such  a groom  to  keep  you  out  of  danger.  No,  Paul,  you 
can’t  go.  You  must  stay  for  your  mistress’  sake,  if 
for  nothing  else.  So  you  may  put  all  thoughts  of  going 
from  your  mind.  If  it  be  true,  as  I really  suspect,  some 
little  love  scrape  with  one  of  the  girls  here,  we  will 
try  and  overlook  it.  Of  course  I don’t  like  such  ugly 
things  about  the  house — bnt  then  negroes  will  be  ne- 
groes, and  little  slips  will  have  to  happen.  So  tell  me 
your  trouble  and  I will  promise  to  overlook  it,”  said 
the  mistress,  with  the  patronizing  grace  of  a queen. 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


101 


“ There  is  no  such  trouble  as  you  imagine/ * I an- 
swered, a little  stiffly.  4 ‘ Your  negro  girls  might  as  well 
be  marble  statues  of  vestal  saints  for  all  the  use  I could 
make  of  them.  They  would  be  no  more  safe  from  me. 
I am  very  sorry  that  you  will  not  let  me  go  back  to  my 
old  work  in  the  fields.  I am  sure  I can  better  serve  you 
there  than  here,  and,  oh,  it  would  be  so  much  better 
for  me.” 

“Ah,  well,  the  loss  of  the  work  will  be  mine  and  you 
need  not  to  care.  It  is  none  of  your  business  where  I 
put  you,  so  you  get  enough  to  eat  and  wear.  I know 
you  can  best  please  me  here  and  there  is  an  end  to 
the  matter.  So  go,  now,  about  your  business.  Vir- 
ginia, is  there  anything  you  want  him  to  do?” 

“Yes,  I wish  him  to  move  the  piano  back  on  its 
summer  side,  by  the  window.  Come  on,  Paul,  I will 
show  you.” 

Her  ankle  was  yet  tender  and  it  gave  her  gait  a little 
halt  that  made  it  charmingly  pretty  as  she  chipped 
along  .before  me  to  the  music  room. 

“Paul,”  she  said,  lightly  touching  my  arm,  after  I 
had  wheeled  the  piano  to  its  place  and  was  turning  to 
go.  “Paul,  is  it  for  me  that  you  want  to  go  away?” 

“No,  Miss  Virginia,  it  is  because  of  myself.” 

“I  feared  that  it  was  because  you  thought  I was  an- 
gry with  you  for  what  you  told  me  yesterday,”  she 
said  softly. 

“And  I should  not  have  blamed  you  had  you  been,” 
I answered. 

“But  I was  not  angry,  that  is,  angry  with  you.  But  I 
was  vexed  at  my  own  self  for  not  being  angry.  Of 
course,  I was  shocked  at  first.  It  seemed  so — so  shame- 
ful and  humiliating  to  think  that  I was  so  closely  akin 
to  a negro.  It  wms  horrible,  but  after  I had  gone  to  bed, 
and  shutting  my  eyes  thought  it  all  over  and  over  again, 
almost  the  livelong  night,  and  knowing  that  it  was  not 
your  fault,  nor  any  fault  of  mine,  and  it  being  you— you 
yourself,  Paul— you,  who  are  so  strong,  so  manly,  so 
grand,  so  handsome  and  so  much  superior  to  all  other 


102 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


negroes  and  to— to  all  other  me— me — men,  that  I did 
not  mind  it  so  much.  Had  it  not  been  you,  Paul,”  using 
the  softest  and  most  confiding  tones  and  with  a gentle 
uplifting  of  her  glorious  eyes,  4 4 had  it,  been  any 
other  man  in  all  the  world,  I would  have  had  him 
driven  av/ay  and  sold  as  far  from  here  as  a speculator 
could  carry  him.  But  it  was  you,  you  who  have  been 
so  kind  and  good  to  me,  so  thoughtful  and  strong  and 
brave,  and  then  the  more  I thought  of  you  the  less 
repulsive  became  the  thought,  until  at  last — you— you 
must  not  think  me  bold,  Paul, — I — I was  really  glad 
of  it.  And  it  was  this,  this — my  own  humiliating  weak- 
ness—that  made  me  so  angry  with  myself  when  you 
came  this  morning,  and  for  meanness  I had  to  take  my 
spite  out  on  you.  X must  ask  you  to  forgive  me,  Paul!” 

4 4 It  is  not  your  scorn,  Miss  Virginia,  that  X minded, 
nor  your  anger,  although  X would  not  willingly  offend 
you,  and  it  would  hurt  me  to  even  give  you  cause  to  be 
angry.  It  is  because  that  I am  no  fit  com — no,  X shall 
not  say  companion — but  servant  for  you.  The  very 
manhood  which  commends  me  to  your  favor  makes  it 
the  more  unhappy  for  me.” 

4 4 Unhappy,  how  V ’ 

“Because  of  its  nearness  to  a heaven  it  would  be  a 
profanity  for  me  even  to  dream  of,”  X answered  softly, 

but  earnestly. 

She  understood  me,  I am  sure,  forvthe  blood  mounted 
to  her  face  and  ears  and  she  shrank  back  with  on  con- 
vulsive start.  But  in  a moment  she  smiled,  oh,  so  sweet- 
ly, as  she  answered : 

4 4 A,h,  there  can  be  no  harm  in  dreaming.  If  it  be  so 
sweet  I give  you  leave  to  dream.  X,  too,  have  my  dreams 
and  they  are  pleasant,  too  pleasant  to  ever  speak,”  and 
then  as  if  abashed  at  the  confession  she  flushed  crimson 
again  and  turning  awa y her  face  she  said : 4 4 Open  the 
piano  and  X will  sing  some.” 

Glad  of  the  diversion,  I opened  the  piano  and  adjust- 
ed her  stool  for  her,  wrhen  seating  herself  she  began  a 
little  prelude. 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


103 


‘ 4 Must  I go  now?”  I asked. 

“Not  if  yon  would  like  to  hear  me  sing,”  and  then, 
with  a sudden  animation  she  looked  up  and  added, 
‘ ‘ Oh,  by  the  way,  Paul,  I have  often  heard  you  singing 
to  yourself  at  night  when  you  thought  me  asleep.  And 
last  night  you  were  singing  one  of  my  favorite  songs. 
You  have  picked  it  up,  no  doubt,  but  it  kept  me  awake 
so  long.” 

“Oh,  I am  so  sorry  to  have  offended,”  I said  earnest- 
ly. “X  am  sure  X will  not  give  you  cause  to  complain 
again. 7 7 

‘ ‘ But  X was  not  offended, 7 7 she  answered.  6 c One  loves 
to  hear  one7s  favorites  sung  by  others.  And  I thought 
some  of  the  fugitive  notes  X caught  were  really  good. 
Do  you  know  anything  about  music?77 

“Only  what  X caught  from  the  birds,77 1 answered. 

“But  you  can  sing,  X am  sure.  There  is  another  air  I 
have  heard  you  humming,  4 When  the  Swallows  Home- 
ward Fly, 7 look  in  my  portfolio  and  find  if,  X think  we 
can  sing  it.77 

It  is  one  of  the  few  compensative  gifts  nature  has 
made  to  my  unlucky  race,  the  rare  gift  of  song,  and  I 
had  a good  voice,  a deep  resonant  baritone,  and  happily 
for  my  credit  the  chance  selection  my  young  mistress 
made  was  well  adapted  to  its  scope,  and  with  fair  suc- 
cess X sang,  my  deep  bass  harmonizing  well  with  the 
flute-like  sweetness  of  her  soprano. 

* ‘ That  is  charming ; we  must  sing  for  papa  this  even- 
ing. X know  it  will  astonish  him  as  it  has  surprised 
me,”  she  said  in  genuine  delight.  “What  other  songs 
do  you  sing?77 

“None,  except— except  a few  of  your  songs  which  I 
caught,77  I said  with  some  hesitancy,  “and  the  wild 
plantation  airs.  And  there  is  the  Marseillaise — X learn- 
ed that  X think  correctly  when  a boy,  from  Major 
Chalon,  an  old  French  soldier  who  had  lived  a recluse 
in  the  Cossetot  swamp.  If  you  please,  X will  try  that?75 

“ Yes,  that  is  grand ; X will  play  the  accompaniment, 7 7 
she  said,  striking  up  the  prelude  at  once. 


104 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


With  all  the  fire  of  a full-blooded  Frenchman  I sang 
it,  and  when  I had  finished  she  gave  a little  44vive” 
with  her  hands,  while  her  eyes  sparkled  more  than 
thanks. 

4 4 Oh,  that  will  charm  papa — I am  so  glad  that  I have 
found  you  out,”  and  then  rising  from  the  piano  she 
turned  to  go. 

44 1 believe  you  may  get  out  Dido  after  dinner,  I am 
so  longing  for  the  woods  once  more.  Do  you  think  I 
can  ride?” 

4 4 1 do  not  think  it  prudent  for  you  to  undertake  it 
for  yet  awhile.  It  was  your  stirrup  foot,  you  know, 
that  was  hurt,  and  you  might  hurt  it  again.  The  slight- 
est strain  now  would  upset  it  again,”  I ventured  to 
cauption. 

4 4 Ah,  well,  if  you  think  so  I shall  not.  Only  you  must 
fix  my  swing  for  me  and  let  me  swing.  I am  anxious 
to  try  that  refractory  swing  again.  You  can  mend  it, 
can't  you?” 

Yes,  I could  mend  it  and  I did,  as  securely  as  if 
my  own  immortal  soul  depended  upon  its  strength  for 
safety,  and  after  dinner  I lifted  the  young  mistress  in 
it  and  she  spent  a golden  afternon  in  its  exhilarating 
oscillations. 

In  the  evening  after  supper  I was  called  to  the  music 
room. 

4 4 Papa,”  explained  my  young  mistress,  44I  have  found 
a new  use  for  Paul.” 

4 4 Yes,  Paul  is  a fellow  of  infinite  capacity,  as  uni- 
versal as  a quack  nostrum.  What  is  it  you  have  dis- 
covered?” 

4 4 That  he  can  sing.” 

4 4 Oh,  all  negroes  can  sing.” 

44YesJ  but  none  like  Paul.  I wish  you  to  hear  him. 
Come,  Paul,”  and  without  prelude  she  dashed  into 
the  song. 

4 4 That  is  very  good,”  said  the  master. 

4 4 It  is  really  charming,”  said  the  mistress. 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


105 


“But  you  should  hear  him  in  solo — the  Marseilles 
hymn.  Sing,  Paul,”  said  the  young  mistress. 

The  words  are  as  peculiarly  French  as  the  air,  no 
translation  can  do  the  sentiment  justice,  and  to  make 
the  performance  as  effective  as  possible  I sang  it  in  the 
original  French. 

It  was  a study  to  watch  the  countenance  of  my  master 
as  I sang.  At  the  first  note  of  the  grand  anthem,  he 
lifted  up  his  head  as  an  artillery  horse  raises  his  ears  at 
the  bugle  call.  Then  his  lips  parted  and  his  eyes  kin- 
dled and  before  I had  finished  his  face  was  fairly  ablaze 
with  enthusiasm. 

“Ah,  Pauline— -that  is  grand,  that  is  brave,  and  oh, 
how  much  like  the  old  days  when  we  were  young.  Ah, 
don’t  you  remember?” 

It  may  be  stated  just  here  that  my  master  and  mis- 
tress were  cousins,  her  mother  being  the  sister  of  old 
General  Choteaux. 

“Oh,  yes,”  acquiesced  the  lady,  recalling  with  evi- 
dent animation  those  early  days,  “and  Paul’s  voice, 
does  it  not  haunt  you  as  a memory?” 

‘ 4 That  it  does.  It  is  as  much  the  voice  of  my  brother 
Jules  as  Jules’  was  of  my  father — that  same  brave  roll 
that  always  shook  my  soul  to  hear.  Paul,  where  in  the 
world  did  you  learn  that  song?” 

“The  good  old  Major  Chalon  taught  me  when  a boy,” 
I answered. 

“Yes,  I remember  the  old  fellow.” 

“But  where  did  you  get  that  voice?”  asked  the  mis- 
tress. 

“That  is  a question  for  psychologists  to  answer.  If 
©ur  gifts  come  directly  from  God,  I must  thank  Him  for 
it,  but  if  they  are  given  to  us  by  our  parents,  I suppose 
that  I may  thank  my  father,”  I answered  a little  bold- 

ly- 

‘ 4 Well,  it  matters  not  where  you  got  it ; but  it  sounds 
wonderfully  like  the  voice  of  my  father,  ’ ’ said  the  mas- 
ter. “Sing  it  again  for  me.” 

I complied  and  the  concert  was  ended. 


106 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


Many  days  afterward,  it  grew  to  be  a puzzle  to  me  to 
know  whether  it  was  really  an  unlucky  trip  of  the  lame 
foot  that  caused  the  cry  of  pain,  or  was  it  only  a co- 
quettish ruse  to  have  me  carry  her  in  my  arms  again 
that  called  as  she  clung  to  the  newel  for  support,  when 
she  had  started  up  to  her  room. 

I did  not  stop  to  consider.  It  sufficed  for  me  to  know 
that  she  wanted  my  strong  arms  to  upbear  her,  and 
with  a fiercely  beating  heart  and  closer  clasp  than  ever 
before  I gathered  her  to  my  bosom  and  carried  her  up, 
while  the  master  and  mistress  looked  on  to  applaud  my 
ready  obedience  and  to  wonder  at  my  giant  strength. 

How  wretchedly  blind  were  we  all,  and  especially 
that  mother,  whose  jealous  care  of  her  daughter  would 
not  have  permitted  the  ungloved  hand  of  a white  lover 
to  rest  so  much  as  upon  her  arm,  and  yet  she  could 
stand  by  and  see  a strong,  robust,  lusty  negro  folding 
her  yielding  form  to  his  heart  while  her  cheek  lay  al- 
most against  his  lips,  kindled  into  a crimson  flame  from 
the  fire  of  the  riotous  blood  that  so  fiercely  pulsed  in 
his  own.  Such  wulful  blindness  was  not  merely  folly, 
but  it  was  a crime. 

Holding  her  thus  I did  not  stop  on  the  landing  to 
stand  her  on  her  feet,  but  carried  her  on  down  the  hall 
and  into  her  room,  where  with  a lingering,  loving,  ten- 
der pressure  I sat  her  on  her  bed  and  turned  to  run 
away  from  the  dangerous  propinquity,  when  with  a 
detaining  clasp  on  my  shoulder  she  stopped  me. 

“Stay  a minute,  Paul;  this  is  so  sweet.  You  are  so 
strong  and  your  strength  so  thrills  me.  It  is  a glory  to 
be  in  your  arms.  I must  thank  you,  ' ’ she  murmured 
blushingly. 

4 ‘ I — I am  glad  it  serves  you.  It  is  yours  always  to 
command/'  I chokingly  answered. 

“Yes,  I know.  You  are  very  kind,  and  I must  still 
further  trouble  you — I fear  I have  hurt  my  ankle  over 
again.  Will  you  please  see?  It  is  really  painful/'  she 
added,  daintily  drawing  up  her  skirts  and  extending 
the  wounded  foot. 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


107 


There  is  a delightful  coquetry,  as  well  as  artistic 
charm  in  the  manner  a pretty  woman  flirts  her  skirts. 
No  skill  with  the  fan,  no  arch  of  the  eyes,  no  pretty 
moue  can  begin  to  equal  its  ravishing  effect  upon  the 
appreciative  eye.  My  charming  young  mistress  was 
piquantly  graceful  in  all  her  actions — every  motion 
was  a grace— and  the  dainty  naivete  with  which  she 
lifted  the  little  cloud  of  snowy1  lace  and  nainsook, 
themselves  so  delicately  suggestive  of  unspeakable 
beauties,  was  the  perfection  of  maidenly  finesse. 

As  tenderly  as,  my  trembling  fingers  would  allow  me, 
I unclasped  the  bejewelled  garter  and  drew  down  the 
stocking,  and  holding  the  ball  of  her  plump  little  heel 
in  my  hand  I softly  pressed  my  fingers  upon  the  wound. 
The  swelling  had  all  disappeared,  but  the  angry 
blotches  of  purple,  in  painful  contrast  with  the  snowy 
skin,  showed  that  the  hurt  was  still  there. 

“Qh,  ouch!”  she  cried,  with  a flinch  of  pain,  as  I 
touched  the  tender  spot,  4 ‘ there  is  where  the  hurt  is. 
Have  I really  broken  it  over?”  she  asked. 

“Oh,  no;  I think  not.  You  must  have  given  it  a 
wrench  at  the  stairs.  I am  very  sorry  it  pains  you,  but 
I think  it  will  soon  be  well  again,”  I assuringly  an- 
swered, unconsciously  caressing  her  foot  with  a tender 
stroke. 

“Ah,  that  is  soothing.  You  must  rub  it  for  me,  Paul. 
There  is  magic  in  your  touch.  Sally,  get  the  ointment 
and  let  him  rub  it  for  me.  He  is  so  much  more  tender 
and  soft  than  you  with  your  awkward  thumb,  ” she  said 
as  I softly  chafed  the  tender  skin. 

Sally  handed  me  the  bottle. 

“Ah,  that  is  so  soothing,  so  pleasant,  m delicious. 
What  a wonderful  touch  you  have — how  can  a hand  s® 
strong  be  so  soft,  so  tender,  so  delicate!  I do  not  won- 
der that  mamma  could  not  give  you  up, 5 * she  burst  out 
again,  half  laughing,  half  seriously  as  I gently  applied 
the  aromatic  lotion,  and  softly  stroked  the  glowing 
flesh,  “and  I — X am  so  glad  that  you  did  not  go.” 

X hardly  know  how  long  X knelt  there  at  my  divin- 


108 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


ity’s  feet,  soothing  with  my  tenderest  touch  the  quiver- 
ing ankle  and  softly  stroking  the  snowy  instep,  with 
an  occasional  involuntary  and  irresistible  caress  of  the 
soft,  velvety  calf,  throwing  into  it  as  much  of  the  subtle 
force  that  was  thrilling  my  nerves  as  it  was  possible  for 
a caressing  contact  to  infuse.  It  did  not  seem  a minute, 
and  I could  have  knelt  there  all  night  without  tiring  or 
thinking  to  count  the  passing  time,  had  not  the  sleepy- 
headed  and  prosaic  Sally,  after  yawning  and  muttering 
her  discontent  for  awhile,  become  desperate  at  last  and 
broke  out,  “Dar,  now,  dat’ill  do.  Yo’  fool  you,’  doan 
yer  see  hits  done  pass  bedtime  and  Miss  Jinny  orter 
be  asleep.  Dat’ll  do,  won’t  it,  Miss  Jinny?  Send  de 
fool  away,  an’  lemme  strip  yer  ter  bed,”  she  said,  open- 
ing the  dressing  case  and  producing  the  young  lady’s 
night  gown. 

“Yes,  Paul,  that  will  do.  It  feels  so  much  better; 
indeed,  it  is  quite  well  now — no  pain,  only,  Paul,  if  you 
will,  you  may  kiss  it,  like  you  would  kiss  a baby’s  hurt, 
and  like  Sally  sometimes  kisses  it,”  she  added  in  apolo- 
getic explanation  as  she  noticed  the  flush  that  shown 
through  my  swarthy  skin. 

I stooped  and  utterly  oblivious  of  the  presence  of 
Sally,  I kissed  the  pinky  sole,  the  toes,  the  now  glowing 
instep  and  then  with  a long,  loving,  passionate  inspira- 
tion as  if  to  draw  in  a surfeit  of  sweetness  I kissed  the 
quivering  ankle. 

“Thanks,  thanks — that  is  so  sweet.  Good  night, 
Paul,  I shall  want  you  again  in  the  morning,”  she  soft- 
ly said,  as  I reluctantly  arose  to  go. 

She  was  a little  shy  next  morning,  and  blushed  with 
a pretty  confusion  when  I went  in  to  announce  break- 
fast— but  she  soon  rallied  and  with  a smile  she  said : 

“You  have  come  to  carry  me  down.  That  is  good, 
but  I don’t  think  I need  to  burden  you  this  morning. 
My  foot  is  ever  so  much  better.  You  must  be  a con- 
jurer, Paul,  to  thus  charm  all  the  pain  away.  How  in 
the  world  do  you  do  it?  See,”  putting  out' the  pretty 
foot  with  a display  of  a well  turned  calf  as  well,  “see, 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


109 


I can  wear  my  boot.  I do  believe  I can  stand  to  ride 
this  afternoon.  Isn’t  it  nice?  Only  I — I am  almost 
sorry  that  it  is  well.  I wanted  you  to  kiss — I — I mean 
to  cure  it  again.” 

“ I am  glad  that  it  does  not  pain  you,  but  am  gladder 
still  that  you  think  so  kindly  of  my  skill,  and  could 
trust  me  to  care  for  it.  It  was  very  sweet  of  you,  and 
— and  it  was  inexpressibly  sweet  to  me,”  I stammered. 

“Was  it  indeed?  Then  I,  too,  am  glad.  I feared  that 
it  was  selfish  in  me  and  that  I had  tired  you.  Come,  I 
may  not  need  you  to  carry  me,  but  I shall  need  the  sup- 
port of  your  arm  down  the  steps,”  she  said  pausing  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs.  With  her  hand  lightly  resting 
on  my  shoulder,  she  herself  drew  my  arm  around  her 
waist  and  with  its  strength  encircling  her  in  a half  em- 
brace I almost  bodily  lifted  her  down.  Her  mother 
stood  at  the  bottom  to  receive  her  with  a kiss. 

“How  is  your  ankle,  darling?  Paul  said  you  had 
strained  it  again.” 

“Oh,  yes,  just  a little,  but,  thanks  to  Paul,  it  is  quite, 
quite  well  again.  He  rubbed  it  so  softly  that  he  charmed 
all  the  hurt  away.  You  cannot  imagine  what  a mag- 
netic touch  he  has  in  his  finger  tips.” 

“Yes,  I know.  It  is  equal  to  a little  voltaic  battery. 
Nothing  does  my  back  and  legs  half  so  much  good  as 
for  him  to  rub  them.  What  a pity  Paul  hadn’t  been  a 
white  man.  He  would  have  made  a capital  doctor.  All 
the  ladies  would  have  been  crazy  after  him.” 

“It  is  happy  for  us,  mamma,  that  he  was  not.  We 
can  have  him  all  to  ourselves,  now.  I don’t  think  I 
could  care  to  divide  him  with  any  other — I mean  with 
every  other — woman.  Should  you?” 

4 ‘ Oh,  no,  I am  glad  that  he  is  ail  our  own.  Only  we 
must  not  spoil  him  with  flattery.  We  mustn’t  give  him 
the  big-head,”  answered  the  mistress  with  a playful 
shake  of  her  head  at  me. 

“Ah,  I don’t  think  he  could  be  so  easily  spoiled. 
He  rubbed  my  foot  and  ankle  so  nicely  last  night  and 
never  once  got  an  inch  above  his  business,”  with  a 


119 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


saucy  little  nod,  and  then  blushing  at  the  sauciness,  she 
added,  4 4 He  was  as  backward  as  a girl  and  I had  to 
tell  him  to  kiss  it,  like  Sally  kisses  it,  before  he  would 
touch  it  with  his  lips.  And  it  was  that  I think,  mamma, 
that  cured  it.  He  seemed  to  kiss  all  the  hurt  away, 
and  this  morning  it  is  not  even  colored  as  it  was  yes- 
terday. ’ ? 

“Yes,  that  was  very  wrell;  and  Paul  you  must  come 
to  my  room  after  dinner — I wish  you  to  rub  my  back,” 
said  the  mistress,  as  she  put  her  arm  around  her  daugh- 
ter ?s  waist  and  lovingly  they  walked  into  breakfast. 

I was  not  derelict  in  my  duty  to  my  mistress  and  im- 
parted as  much  of  superfluous  vitality  to  her  failing 
nerves  as  was  possible  for  a purely  manual  friction  to 
transmit,  as  after  having  Winnie  to  open  her  corsage, 
she  lay  prone  upon  her  stomach  and  ordered  me  to  rub 
her  spine.  There  may  have  been  a mesmeric  som- 
nolence in  it,  but  I am  sure  she  felt  none  of  the  subtle 
force  that  had  so  unconsciously  thrilled  the  being  of 
her  daughter  the  evening  before.  It  was  a warm, 
strong,  ruddy  glow  I brought  to  the  surface,  soothing 
and  strengthening,  but  there  was  no  odic  thrill  in  the 
touch  and  when  she  gave  a little  sigh  nearly  akin  to  a 
snore  and  slightly  turned  on  her  side  for  a sleep,  I could 
withdraw  my  hand  with  the  cold  composure  of  an  octo- 
genarian surgeon. 

“Now,  you  have  put  mamma  to  sleep,  I must  trouble 
you  to  wait  upon  me,”  said  the  young  mistress,  who 
had  been  a silent  spectator  of  the  mesmeric  operation. 

“I  am  always  ready  to  wait  upon  you,”  I answered. 

“Then  come  with  me  to  the  library.  There  are  gome 
passages  in  the  story  you  read  me  of  ‘Paul  and  Yir- 
ginia’  I wish  you  to  read  again.” 

Of  course  an  expression  of  her  wish  was  a law  to  me 
and  I followed  her  to  the  library  as  closely  as  my 
station  would  allow. 

The  volume  lay  on  the  table  and  the  passage  opened 
of  itself  as  if  she  had  been  reading  it  before.  It  was 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


Ill 


the  tender  love  scene  in  the  grove  and  when  I had  read 
it,  I paused  for  her  comment. 

She  sat  silent  for  a moment,  a little  pale  at  first,  but 
I saw  the  pinky  color  rising  up,  a little  shell-tint  at 
first,  but  coloring  deeper  and  deeper  into  a rosy  red, 
and  with  a sudden  turn  she  said,  4 4 That  was  very  sweet, 
wasn’t  it?” 

4 4 To  Paul  it  must  have  been  heaven  itself,”  I an- 
swered. 

4 4 And  to  Virginia,  too,”  she  said;  4 4 and  suppose, 
Paul— suppose  it  had  been  we  two — you  and  I — that 
you  had  been  Paul  and  I,  Virginia,  what  would  you 
have  done?” 

4 4 Oh,  Miss  Virginia,  you  should  not  ask  me.  I — I 
could  not  dare  to  make  such  a presumptuous  supposi- 
tion.” 

4 4 Well,  let  me  make  it  then.  I will  suppose  that  you 
are  Paul,  and  I— I am  Virginia.  What  would  you  have 
done?” 

4 4 No — no,  my  sweet  mistress,  let  me  ask  it?  Suppose 
you  were  Virginia,  the  gracious  mistress,  and  I poor 
Paul,  the  slave,  what  would  you  have  done?” 

4 4 1 should  have  done  this,  Paul — I should  have  put 
my  arms  up  to  your  neck  so,  and  said,  4 Paul,  my  life,  I 
love  you— kiss,  kiss  me,  Paul’,”  and  rising  she  placed 
her  fair  round  arms  about  my  neck  and  reaching  up 
her  rich,  ripe,  melting  lips  to  my  own  she  kissed  me, 

4 4 Oh,  darling — darling,  my  love,”  I cried,  clasping 
her  to  my  heart  and  giving  her  kiss  for  kiss,  dashing 
them  upon  her  lips,  her  chin,  her  eyes  and  her  forehead ; 
and  then  horrified  at  my  boldness  I released  her  from 
my  arms  and  placing  her  back  in  her  chair,  I turned  and 
ran  away  from  her  presence  almost  as  wild  in  thought 
as  an  animal  released  from  a snare. 


CHAPTER  X. 


SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOW. 


The  veil  was  now  lifted  from  both  our  hearts,  the 
scales  from  our  eyes,  and  she  knew  that  I loved  her  as 
blindly,  madly,  despairingly  as  I felt  that  she,  my 
queenly  mistress,  loved  me.  But  where  was  it  to  lead  ? 
Where  ? Ah,  love — such  love  as  ours — had  but  one 
goal.  And  did  we  know?  And  knowing,  not  draw 
back  in  shame,  confusion  and  horror?  Ah,  we  hardly 
knew— we  did  not  think.  We  could  not  draw  back, 
but  like  the  doomed  of  destiny  gathering  roses  on  the 
flowery  slopes  of  Avernus,  we  only  saw  its  ravishing 
beauties  and  felt  the  subtle  charm  of  their  intoxicating 
odors.  As  for  my&elf,  could  I be  blamed?  For  a man 
of  my  feelings,  with  my  natural  love  for  the  beautiful, 
my  susceptibilities  to  the  charms  of  sweetness,  of  wom- 
anly loveliness,  of  my  health  and  strength  and  manly 
vigor,  to  be  daily  thrown  into  contact  with,  to  look 
upon,  to  touch,  to  inhale  the  fragrance  of  her  beauty 
and  to  feel  the  magnetic  allurement  of  the  presence  of 
such  a woman  as  Virginia  Choteaux  and  not  to  surren- 
der himself,  heart  and  soul,  to  their  influences,  would 
be  to  belie  his  very  nature  and  to  stultify  his  manhood. 

I loved  Virginia  Choteaux  from  the  first  kindly  glance 
she  ever  gave  me.  I knew  that  I loved  her  then  as  I 
know  it  now.  I did  not  deliberately  seek  to  win — or  the 
world  wdll  say  debauch — her  love,  because  I never 
dreamed  of  such  a sweet  possibility.  What  I did  was 
done  in  that  unconscious  or  rather  instinctive  spirit 
that  makes  us  all,  high  or  low,  wish  to  appear  well  in 
the  eyes  of  those  we  love.  It  was  this  blind,  un- 
conscious groping  after  applause  and  sympathetic  ad- 

112 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


113 


miration  inherent  in  all  men  who  respect  themselves, 
that  made  me  in  selecting  my  readings  for  her  enter- 
tainment always  choose  such  subjects  as  made  physical 
strength  and  courage  and  stature  the  standards  of  man- 
ly excellence.  I was  strong,  I was  active,  I was  bold, 
and  despite  my  swart  color,  I was  not  unhandsome.  My 
profile  silhouetted  on  a card  would  have  attracted  pleas- 
ing notice  on  any  drawing  room  table  or  in  the  studio 
of  any  artist.  I had  a fair  share  of  animal  vivre  in 
my  loins,  but  I was  not  inordinately  passionate.  There 
are,  I fancy,  but  few  men  living  who  can  point  to  a 
more  continent  life  than  mine.  My  own  father,  high- 
born gentleman  that  he  was,  had  led  less  or  else  I had 
never  been  born. 

It  was  not,  then,  a lecherous  desire  to  riot  on  her 
beauty,  her  sweetness,  that  drew  my  heart  so  madly  to 
hers.  I loved  her  because  I should  have  had  to  be 
either  more  or  less  than  man  not  to  have  loved  her.  And 
she — she  returned  that  love  because  she  would  have  had 
to  be  more  than  woman  not  to  have  done  so.  The  con- 
ditions of  the  propinquity  into  which  the  blindness  of 
the  master  and  the  father  had  placed  us,  and  the  dis- 
connected chain  of  seductive  events  and  circumstances 
which  followed  were  irresistible. 

If  we  sinned  it  was  because  we  were  both  mortal— 
because  God  had  made  her  beautiful,  lovely  and  sweet, 
and  the  same  God  had  made  me  strong,  manly  and  at- 
tractive. It  was  natural  then,  that,  thrown  together  as 
we  were,  we  should  have  loved — loved  as  only  two  such 
hearts  could  love. 

It  was  not  like  a guilty  conscious  quaking  with  fear 
for  myself  that  I fled  from  her  presence  and  hid  myself 
as  well  as  I could  all  the  evening  from  her  sight.  For 
my  own  self  and  the  consequences  upon  my  own  head  I 
never  once  thought,  but  only  of  her.  I dreaded  the 
shock  that  would  come  to  her  when  in  the  soberness  of 
solitude  she  realized  the  truth — that  I,  the  ill-born  ne- 
gro, had  dared  to  lift  my  soul  to  hers.  I thought  not  of 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


m 

my  slavery — in  all  my  life  I have  thought  but  little  of 
that  circumstance.  It  was  the  taint  of  the  negro  that 
made  me  a pariah  in  my  own  estimation.  Slavery  was 
a political  and  social  condition  that  could — and  in  a 
rational  prescience  I felt  would — be  set  aside,  but  this 
other,  the  ban  of  Africa  could  never  be  lifted.  The 
one  was  a social  status  that  could  be  changed  at  the 
will  of  men,  the  other  was  a physical  essence,  a vital 
and  distinguishing  feature  of  racial  inferiority,  that 
only  the  bleaching  of  my  bones  in  the  grave  could  ef- 
face. This  it  was — the  fear  of  reproaching  her  self- 
respect  with  a sense  of  my  nearness— that  held  me  as 
far  awa y from  her  sight  as  my  duties  would  allow  me 
to  keep.  I was  afraid  the  sight  of  my  face  would  re- 
buke her  with  a sense  of  her  rashness  and  momentary 
weakness. 

And,  well,  perhaps,  was  it  that  I did  avoid  her,  for  it 
would  have  embarrassed  if  not  humiliated  her  to  have 
seen  me.  I feared,  too,  that  she  might  think  I wished  to 
presume  upon  what  she  had  done — the  amazing  con- 
descension she  had  shown  me — and  thus  thinking  might 
be  frightened  at  my  nearness. 

It  was  more  than  a week  before  I stood  face  to  face 
with  her,  and  then  it  was  in  answer  to  a summons  from 
my  mistress  that  I went. 

“I  wish  to  know,  Paul,  what  it  is  you  are  so  sulky 
about?  Is  it  because  I would  not  let  you  go  back  to 
the  plantation?” 

“Oh,  no,  ma’am,”  I meekly  protested. 

6 6 Then  what  is  the  matter  ? What  are  you  blowed  up 
about?  I have  noticed  you  skulking  around  for  a week 
like  you  had  been  caught  in  the  chicken  house.  Now, 
sir,  I want  to  tell  you,  you  must  put  yourself  back  in 
your  proper  place  or  I will  have  Joe  to  give  you  a strap- 
ping. Do  you  understand  ? ’ 9 

“I  am  very  sorry,  mistress,  that  I have  displeased 
you.  I didn’t  mean  to  neglect  my  duties,  I am  sure.” 

“Didn’t  mean  to  do  it?  Then  why  did  you?  You 
haven’t  done  a hand’s  turn  for  your  Miss  Virginia  in  I 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


115 


don’t  know  how  long.  What  do  you  mean  by  neglect- 
ing her,  when  you  know  it  is  for  her  service  alone  that 
I keep  you?” 

“I  don’t  think,  mamma,  that  Paul  meant  to  neglect 
me.  I— I really  haven’t  needed  him,”  sweetly  inter- 
posed the  young  mistress,  with  a pitying  glance  at  me. 

“But  Sally  says  he  hasn’t  so  much  as  brought  a 
pitcher  of  water  to  your  room  this  week.” 

“That  is  because  I ordered  her,  the  lazy  hussy,  to  do 
it  herself.  She  is  mad  and  wants  to  set  you  on  Paul.  It 
is  her  place  to  fetch  the  water  and  I made  her  do  it.  ’ ’ 

“No,  it  is  not  her  place.  It  is  Paul’s  and  I mustn’t 
hear  of  him  neglecting  it  any  more.  Do  youT  under- 
stand, sirrah?” 

“Yes,  ma’am.” 

“Yery  well,  be  sure  you  heed,  and  now  you  may  go, 
or,  wait  a minute.  Virginia,  don’t  you  think  you  are 
strong  enough  for  a ride?  A gallop  would  help  you  I 
am  sure.  You  have  been  moping  around  the  house  long 
enough,” 

“I  don’t  know,  mamma;  I feel  quite  strong  enough 
for  almost  anything,  but  I do  not  care  to  ride.” 

“But  I care;  you  must  take  a little  gallop  if  just  for 
the  exercise.  Go,  Paul,  and  get  out  her  mare.” 

I knew  it  was  no  use  to  protest— even  had  I wished 
to  avoid  the  attendance  upon  the  ride — and  with  an 
humble  obeisance,  I went  out  to  saddle  the  horses. 

I found  her  ready  at  the  gate,  and  wishing  to  relieve 
her  of  any  further  fear  of  my  presumption,  I kneeled 
and  offered  my  back  for  a step  to  mount. 

“No,  no — I cannot  accept  such  an  abject  service  from 
you.  You  must  give  me  your  hand,”  she  said,  with  a 
flush,  as  she  put  out  her  foot. 

“I  might  hurt  your  ankle.  Let  me  lift  you  by  the 
waist,”  I respectfully  asked,  and  without  awaiting  her 
answer,  I grasped  her  waist  with  my  hands  and  lightly 
lifted  her  to  her  seat. 

There  was  no  boldness  in  the  action,  only  a consid- 
erate service  to  avoid  a possible  discomfort  to  her,  and 


116 


THE  STOBY  OF  A SLAVE. 


she  graciously  recognized  it  as  such,  and  with  some- 
thing like  the  -old  brightness,  she  said: 

“That  is  much  better,  and  I thank  you.” 

And  then  we  rode  away,  she  giving  Dido  a free  rein 
and  I with  difficulty  keeping  the  restive  and  rampant 
Selim  at  a proper  distance  from  the  mare. 

I could  plainly  see  that  it  was  merely  to  satisfy  her 
mother  that  she  rode  and  that  she  felt  a disquieting 
constraint  in  being  alone  with  me.  I was  anxious  to 
reassure  her,  and  to  this  end  scrupulously  avoided  any 
reference  to  what  had  passed,  either  by  word,  look  or 
sign.  I kept  my  place  precisely  as  I had  kept  it  before, 
neither  too  near  nor  too  far,  and  was  glad  to  think  that 
it  relieved  her. 

She  took  only  a short  canter  through  the  lane,  not 
venturing  into  the  solitude  of  the  woods,  and  then  rode 
home.  As  respectfully  as  before,  I lifted  up  my  hands 
to  her  arms  and  lifted  her  down.  Her  mother  stood  on 
the  portico  ready  to  welcome  her. 

“Ah,  now,  you  look  so  much  rosier.  I am  sure  the 
ride  has  done  you  good.” 

“Oh,  yes,  I do  feel  ever  so  much  better,  and  we  will 
have  some  music  after  supper,  ’ ’ she  answered,  brightly, 
and  I felt  that  a little  rift  in  the  cloud  had  been  made. 

After  supper  I stood  out  in  the  dark  of  the  portico 
and  listened  to  her  songs,  while  I gloated  through  the 
open  lattice  on  the  ravishing  beauty  of  her  face.  I al- 
most hoped  to  be  called  in  to  help  in  the  song,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life  felt  a little  jealous  slight  that 
I was  not. 

The  next  morning  I commenced  again  my  duties  of 
personal  attendance  upon  her  room,  and  although  it 
was  earlier  than  usual  when  I went  in  with  a can  of 
fresh  water  from  the  spring  for  her  morning  lavation, 
I once  again  surprised  her  on  the  ottoman  drawing  on 
her  stocking.  With  a quick  start  she  dropped  the  up- 
lifted foot  and  shook  down  her  skirts  in  maidenly  con- 
fusion, while  I with  equal  perturbation  drew  back  a 
moment.  Then  I respectfully  advanced  with  the  water. 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


117 


“I  think  it  is  very  wrong  in  mamma  to  require  such 
a menial  service  of  you,”  she  said,  still  nervously 
smoothing  down  her  skirts. 

“That  it  should  embarrass  you  is  all  that  troubles 
me.  The  service  is  really  a pleasure  to  me,  anything 
that  I can  do  for  you  is  happiness,”  I answered,  speak- 
ing with  eyes  as  well  as  tongue. 

“Yes,  and  everything  you  do  for  me  is  a gladness  to 
me  also, ’ ’ she  answered.  ‘ ‘ Only  I — I do  not  like  you  to 
do  things  for  me  that  Sally  or  Joe,  or  Stumpy  Jake 
could  do.  You  are  worthy  of  better  things.  I do  not 
ask  a menial’s  service  of  you.” 

“No  service,  if  performed  for  you,  would  seem  menial 
to  me.  I would  consider  it  a pleasure  that  the  proudest 
gentleman  in  the  land  might  envy  me,”  I answered 
earnestly. 

“Ah!  that  is  gallant,  and  you  must  believe  me,  Paul, 
when  I tell  you  how  much  I appreciate  your  goodness. 
How  really  and  truly  I thank  you  for  it.  Only  I must 
not  impose  too  much  upon  your  kindness.  Since  mamma 
demands  this  of  you  I must  perforce  accept  it,  but  I 
want  you  to  know,  Paul,  that  in  accepting  it,  I do  it  as 
a — a token  of— of  your — your  devotion  for  me,  rather 
than  the  duty  of  a servant,  ’ ’ she  said  with  a sweet  earn- 
estness. 

“It  is  my  great,  my  idolizing  devotion  for  you  that 
dignifies  the  service  into  a happy,  happy  privilege,”  I 
answered,  and  then  fearing  to  again  overstep  my  pru- 
dence I adjusted  the  lavatory  and  went  out. 

That  afternoon  she  rode  again  and  on  the  ride  the 
distance  between  a servile  groom  and  queenly  mistress 
was  insensibly  lessened,  and  when  we  returned  I was 
riding  close  by  her  side,  neither  of  us  knowing  when 
or  how  the  friendly  propinquity  had  been  established. 

After  supper  music  was  again  in  order,  and  this  time 
I was  called  in  the  last  to  finish  the  entertainment  with 
the  “Marseillaise.” 

“If  I believed  in  the  old  Pythagorean  doctrine  of  the 
transmigration  of  souls,  and  could  understand  how  tke 


118 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


souls  of  men  could  go  into  horses  and  dogs  and  negroes, 
I should  say  that  the  souls  of  my  father  and  of  my 
brother  Jules  had  by  some  fantastic  freak  crept  into 
Paul.  If  ever  the  voice  of  one  man  lived  in  the  voice 
of  another  the  voice  of  my  father  lives  in  the  voice  of 
this  negro,”  said  my  master,  turning  with  a little  sober- 
ness to  the  mistress. 

“Yes,  they  are  wondrously  alike;  but  perhaps  it  is 
the  song  itself,  the  words  and  the  air  he  used  to  love 
so  well,  which  suggests  the  sameness  and  recall  the 
good,  old  father,”  said  the  mistress,  “and  now  Paul, 
you  may  go.” 

In  order  to  avoid  another  matutinal  surprise,  I went 
in  much  earlier  the  next  morning,  before  the  young 
mistress  was  awake  and  softly  moving  about  I arranged 
the  room  and  had  turned  to  go,  when  she  called. 

“I  wish  you  to  read  to  me  this  morning,  Paul;  after 
breakfast  come  to  me  in  the  library.  ’ ? 

“I  shall  be  so  glad  to  read  to  you,”  I answered  with 
the  gladness  thrilling  my  voice. 

After  breakfast,  having  paid  my  obeisance  to  my  mis- 
tress, I followed  my  young  mistress  to  the  library. 
Drawing  an  easy  chair  for  her  to  the  window  where  the 
fragrance  from  the  roses  could  float  in  and  envelop  her 
with  their  sweetness,  I drew  the  lecturn  before  her  and 
was-  ready  to  take  my  stand,  when  she  interfered. 

“Mo,  no,  Paul,  you  shall  not  stand  any  mure.  Here, 
you  can  sit  on  this  rug  at  my  feet,  if  you  will  not  sit 
in  a chair,  but  you  must  not  stand. ? ? 

“Thank  you  for  the  grace.  It  will  be  so — so—” 

“So  what?”  she  asked  with  a smile  as  I hesitated  to 
speak. 

“May  I speak  it?” 

“Oh,  yes,  speak  what  you  have  in  mind.  It  would 
be  what  ? ” 

“It  would  be  so  sweet  to  always  sit  at  your  feet,”  I 
answered  softly. 

“Will  it?  Then  get  your  book  and  come.” 

“What  shall  I get?” 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


119 


“ Get.  Shakespeare  again.  ‘Romeo  and  Juliet ’ — or, 
no  that  was  too  sad.  I should  like  something  happy  to- 
day. Let  me  see  the  book.  Oh,  this  is  such  a lovely 
picture,”  she  added,  as  kneeling  at  her  feet — almost 
against  her  lap — I held  the  volume,  opening  by  chance 
at  an  illuminated  depiction  of  Venus  weeping  over  the 
wounded  Adonis.  “But  this  must  be  sad,  too.  What 
is  it?  ‘Venus  and  Adonis.’  Is  it  so  really  sad?  I have 
never  read  it.  It  is  short/  ’ turning  the  leaves  to  esj 
timate  its  length,  “You  may  read  it  for  me.  Will  you 
please  ?” 

I took  the  book,  and  setting  myself  at  her  feet  and 
infusing  all  the  fire  of  my  soul  into  the  subject,  I read 
the  spirited  poem.  I did  not  stop  to  observe  the  ex- 
citing effect  it  had  upon  her — the  thrilling  starts  and 
crimson  blushes — but  read  on  to  the  end. 

When  I had  finished  she  sat  silent  for  a moment  with 
cheeks  rosy  red  and  heaving  bosom,  and  then  she  softly 
said,  as  if  communing  with  herself: 

“Ah,  love — love!  Whalf  a ravishing,  maddening 
thing  it  must  be — if  even  a goddess  could  thus  be  en- 
tranced. If  she,  the  proud  goddess,  the  very  queen 
of  love  itself,  could  be  so  weak,  wfiat  can  one  expect 
from  a mortal  like  me?” 

“I  cannot  believe  it  a weakness,”  I ventured  to  say, 
“but  rather  an  inspiration,  making  men  strong  and 
brave ; and  women  fair  and  sweet.  I never  felt  so  much 
like  a man — nay,  more  than  a man — until — until — ” 
I had  to  pause. 

. “Until  when?”  she  asked  with  an  encouraging  smile, 
itself  full  of  meaning. 

“I  fear  it  will  anger  you  for  me  to  speak  it.” 

“No,  no.  I don’t  think,  Paul,  that  you  could  ever 
anger  me  again.  Tell  me  what  is  it  that  makes  you  feel 
such  a glory  in  your  manhood!” 

“The  blessed  sight  of  the  woman  I love,”  I answered 
boldly. 

“And  that  woman  is?”  with  a further  encouraging 
arch  ©f  her  eye-brows. 


120 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


‘ ‘ My  mistress.  My  beautiful,  my  sweet,  my  queenly, 
gentle  mistress,”  I answered  softly. 

“And  you  love  me,  Paul?” 

“Dearer  than  I love  my  own  soul.” 

“And  I — I love  you,  Paul — weak,  wicked,  shameful 
though  it  be,  I do  love  you,  and  I cannot  help  it,”  she 
cried,  bowing  her  head  in  her  hands  to  hide  her  shame 
and  bursting  into  a flood  of  tears. 

I knew  not  what  to  say  to  soothe  her — to  thank  and 
to  bless  her— I could  only  stoop  reverently  and  press 
my  lips  to  the  hem  of  her  garment  and  in  that  moment 
of  supreme  adoration,  kiss  the  soles  of  her  feet  and 
then  I silently  stole  away. 

After  dinner  we  rode  again  and  though  we  rode  side 
by  side — almost  knee  against  knee — we  rode  in  silence, 
hardly  a word  being  spoken.  But  as  some  draperies  re- 
veal more  than  they  conceal,  so  there  are  silences  which 
speak  more  eloquently  than  words,  and  such  was  the 
silence  that  held  us  both  mute.  There  was  no  need  of 
words  between  us  now — not  even  to  conceal — we  both 
knew  that  we  loved  and  it  would  have  been  a misery 
to  have  known  more. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


THE  AFTERMATH  OF  ANGUISH. 


The  next  morning  I read  to  her  again.  This  time  I 
chose  a subject  less  suggestive  of  passion,  but  less  un- 
happy, the  comedy,  “As  You  Like  It.”  Its  genial 
humor  and  charming  spirit  pleased  and  assured  her 
and  when  she  went  out  to  dinner  it  was  in  a gay  flut- 
ter of  spirits,  very  pretty  to  see  and  inexpressibly 
sweet  to  me. 

After  dinner  I was  ready  at  the  door  waiting  the 
order  to  fetch  the  horses  for  the  ride,  when  Sally  in 
high  glee  came  to  tell  me  that  her  young  mistress  had 
given  her  a little  holiday  that  afternoon  to  go  down 
to  the  branch  to  hunt  “bubby  blossoms”  and  that  I 
would  have  to  wait  upon  her  all  by  myself. 

“She  ses  she  can’t  ride  this  evenin’,  kase  ole  massa 
an’  ole  misstus  am  gwine  ter  town  an’  she  has  ter 
stay  an’  keep  house.  An’  she  sees  fer  yo’  ter  run  rite 
now  ’an  fotch  her  a pitcher  ob  fresh  water  from  de 
spring,  an’  yo’  ’ad  bettah  makaste  ’bout  it,  too,  er 
yo’ll  kotch  it,  foh  I tells  yo’,  she’s  in  one  ob  her  little 
tantrums  dis  evenin’,  an’  is  as  spiteful  as  a cat.  She’* 
gettin’  mitey  kurus  yere  lately,  enyhow.” 

I hurried  to  the  spring  and  in  a few  moments  I was 
back  with  the  bubbles  still  sparkling  on  the  pitcher’s 
brim,  as  I softly  tapped  at  the  door. 

“Ah,  it  is  you?  Come  in.  I am  so  glad  that  you 
have  come.  Mamma  has  gone  to  town,  and  I have, to 
keep  house,  and  so  we  cannot  ride — but — I — X don’t 
believe  that  I care  as  we  can  make  it  so  much  pleasant- 
er here.  Give  me  a sip  of  water  and  then  you  cans, 
sit  here  on  the  lounge  by  me  and  fan  me  to  sleep.” 

121 


122 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


There  was  in  her  room,  in  addition  to  her  high 
canopied  bedstead,  a low  springy  couch  or  lounge, 
upon  which  she  took  her  noon-day  siestas.  Upon  this 
she  was  lithely  reclining,  attired  in  airy,  loose,  cool- 
ing negligee,  every  beauty  and  grace  and  charm  of 
person  revealed — by  being  half  hidden — in  its  most 
ravishing  loveliness.  Ah,  had  the  Venus  herself — of 
whom  we  had  been  reading — possessed  such  'a  form, 
such  a figure,  such  a bosom,  such  arms,  as  the  gossamer- 
like  wrapper  so  charmingly  disclosed,  with  such  lips, 
such  eyes  and  such  breath,  the  poor  weakling  milk- 
sop of  an  Adonis  would  not  have  required  the  “ivory 
pale”  to  have  restrained  him  from  running  away. 

I filled  a glass  and  proffered  it  to  her,  but  the 
tremor  of  my  hand  dashed  a little  spray  on  her  neck. 

‘ ‘ Ouch ! 7 7 she  gasped,  from  the  little  shock  oceasiQned 
by  the  icy  douche,  “what  an  awkward  Ganymede  you 
make,77  she  laughed  as  recovering,  she  took  the  gob- 
let herself  and  sipped  its  coolness.  “But,77  she  added, 
brightly,  “I  have  got  my  classics  confused.  It  was 
the  strong  Hercules  and  Ganymede  served.  I must 
reverse  our  positions  and  I will  be  Ganymede.  There, 
thanks;  now  my  fan,  if  you  please,  and  let  me  see  if 
you  are  so  awkward  with  it.77 

I took  the  glass  and  put  it  away,  and  found  her  fan, 
a dainty,  rose-scented  spread  of  feathers,  almost  as 
airy  itself  as  a zephyr. 

“Now,  Paul,  you  may  sit  here  by  me,  close,  close 
as  you  please.  I do  so  love  to  feel  the  subtle,  strange, 
but  delicious  magnetism  of  your  nearness.  It  seems 
as  though  a part  of  your  magnificent  strength  were  be- 
ing transfused  into  my  own  being.  Ah,  now  fan  me 
gently  and  let  me  close  my  eyes  and  fancy  myself  in 
a beautiful  paradise,7’  she  continued  with  a bewitching 
smile  as  she  languishingly  closed  her  eyes  and  lay 
blind  for  a few  moments,  as  if  to  give  my  ravished 
sight  time  and  chance  to  explore  unabashed  the  heaven 
of  beauty  it  would  have  been  too  timorous  to  look 
upon  under  the  consciousness  of  her  own.  And  then 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


123 


with  a flush  she  started  up,  the  movement  shaking 
loose  the  diamond  clasp  that  held  the  fleecy  drapery 
around  her  neck  and  shoulder,  and  gazing  tenderly 
into  my  eyes  she  said: 

4 4 Paul,  I ought  not  to  have  you  here,  so  near  me, 
and  we  two  all  alone,  and  loving  as  we  do — you,  so 
strong  and  I — I so  weak.  I— I almost  fear  it  is  wrong, 
that  you — you  will  despise  me  for  it — that  you  will 
think  me  bold,  unmaidenly,  unwomanly.  But,  oh, 
Paul,  I do  love  you  so,  and  there  is  no  hope  for  my 
love!  You  will  not  despise  me,  dear  Paul,  you  will 
not  think  me  bold.” 

4 4 Despise  you,  Virginia,  my  beautiful  mistress,  my 
life,  my  love  ? No,  no,  you  are  all  the  world  to  me — 
life,  love,  heaven!”  X cried  in  a passionate  impulse, 
stooping  to  kiss  her. 

4 4 Oh,  that  is  sweet,  sweet,”  she  whispered,  detain- 
ing my  head  in  her  arms,  4 4 so  sweet — kiss  me  again, 
Paul,  kiss  me ! Ah,  now,  ’ ’ relieving  my  head  and  at 
the  same  time  drawing  me  toward  her,  4 4 ah,  I love 
you,  Paul,  with  all  my  heart — take  me,  take  me,”  she 

cried,  in  her  uncontrollable  excitement. 

^ ^ ^ ^ 

It  was  a wild  delirium  of  love  and  passion,  and  when, 
with  the  first  return  of  reason,  X looked  upon  the 
flower  I had  despoiled,  it  was  yet  in  a daze  of  senses 
and  a whirl  of  brain  nearly  akin  to  madness — a temp- 
est of  self-reproach  crowding  in  upon  me  with'  the  re- 
turn of  fuller  consciousness.  For  a moment  X watched 
her  as  she  lay  so  fair  and  sweet  before  me,  her  heart 
fluttering  faintly  against  her  snowy  breast,  her  lips 
panting  for  breath,  and  her  eyes  closed  in  a half 
sleepy,  half  stupified  tangor,  and  then  the  faint  little 
fiuter  suddenly  growing  into  a startled  beat,  the  little 
babe-like  pants  into  a gasp  of  pain,  and  her  eyes,  her 
large  lustrous  fawn-like  eyes,  opened  staring  fright- 
enedly  around  and  then  putting  up  her  hand  to  hide 
her  heaving,  naked  bosom,  she  threw  me  aside  with  an 
almost  superhuman  thrust  as  she  started  up. 


124 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


“Oh,  horror!  Paul,  what  have  you  done?  Misery, 
sin,  shame,  oh,  my  God,  why  did  you  not  kill  me  ? Oh, 
Paul,  you  have-  destroyed  me.  Go,  go,  leave  the  room 
and  the  house  forever,  lest  our  sin  consumes  us  where 
we  stand.  Undone,  undone— lost,  lost!”  and  spring- 
ing from  the  couch  she  knelt  by  her  bed  and  bury- 
ing her  face  in  the  pillow,  she  burst  into  a piteous 
wail  of  moans,  of  tears  and  of  sobs. 

I would  have  tried  to  comfort  her,  but  it  seemed  a 
sacrilege  for  me  to  speak,  and  like  the  serpent  steal- 
ing out  from  the  Eden  it  had  destroyed,  I slunk  from 
the  room.  Gladly  would  I have  hanged  myself  to  the 
nearest  tree  to  have  made  her  once  more  what  she 
could  never  be  again.' 

Oh,  how  I had  wounded  my  sweet  dove ! And  how 
I wished  I could  die  if  death  might  recall  the  blow. 
Not  for  any  thought  of  myself,  for  any  dread  of  the 
death  that  would  be  swift  to  follow  the  disclosure 
of  my  act,  as  surely  as  the  withering  crash  follows 
the  lightning’s  livid  stroke,  but  all  for  her  whose  fair 
head  was  now  bowed  do wn  under  its  weight  of  shame 
— of  shame  I had  wrought — for  her,  whom  I had  left 
kneeling  in  such  an  agony  of  remorse  and  sorrow,  as 
only  the  blessed  Christ,  who  pities  and  forgives  can 
ever  know. 

Had  I not  loved  her  as  I did,  with  all  my  strength, 
with  all  my  heart,  with  all  my  soul,  I might  have  felt 
the  seducer’s  unmanly  pride  in  his  conquest,  an  ex- 
ultant triumph  in  the  masterful  strength  that  had  en- 
abled me,  the  despised  negro,  the  slave,  to  overcome 
and  subdue  the  queenly  mistress ; but  no,  my  triumph 
was  to  be  her  eternal  shame,  and  heart-sick  with  yearn- 
ing pity  for  her  and  contempt  and  loathing  for  my- 
self I went  down  and  out  from  the  house — out  from 
the  yard,  out  from  the  sight  and  sound  of  human-kind, 
to  hide  myself  in  the  stables  among  the  dumb  cattle, 
wishing  that  I were  one  of  them,  that  instead  of  the 
susceptibilities  of  a man,  like  the  ox  1 had  been  born 
with  a brute’s  numbness  of  soul. 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


125 


As  nearly  distracted  as  it  is  possible  for  a rational 
mind  to  be  without  passing  forever  into  the  darkness 
of  madness  I lay  all  that  afternoon  grovelling  on  my 
belly  in  a manger  with  my  lips  in  the  dust,  and  it 
was  not  until  Hance,  the  coachman,  came  to  stable  his 
carriage  horses,  that  I could  arouse  myself  from  my 
frenzy  of  remorse,  and  brushing  the  litter  and  dust 
from  my  clothes  I went  back  to  the  house  to  face  my 
master  and  mistress,  without  knowing  or  caring  what 
was  to  be  my  doom. 

If  it  had  been  possible  to  relieve  her  soui  from  even 
the  thought  of  guilt,  and  by  doing  so  I could  have 
made  her  sweetly  innocent  in  her  own  conscience,  I 
should  have  walked  boldly  into  the  house  and  facing 
my  master  told  him  that  I had  broken  into  her  cham- 
ber and  despite  the  despairing  struggles  and  cries  and 
tears  of  the  helpless  victim,  had  foully  ravished  his 
daughter,  and  folding  my  hands  to  be  tied,  would  have 
begged  him  for  the  love  he  had  for  his  child  to  kill 
me,  to  shoot,  hang,  or  burn  me  at  the  stake.  Nay, 
more,  had  she  in  her  agony  of  conscience  confessed 
to  her  mother  our  mutual  shame,  I should  have  belied 
her  truth  and  averred  that  I alone  was  the  guilty 
ravisher  and  she  the  innocent  victim. 

That  much  I had  firmly  resolved  upon  and  it  was 
this,  the  first  intelligent  resolution  which  I could  evoke 
from  the  despairing  chaos  of  mind,  that  gave  me  cour- 
age to  rise  and  firin  in  this  purpose  I went  forth,  half 
expecting  to  be  met  at  the  gate  by  Joe  with  the  un- 
leashed bloodhoundsand  chains  and  handcuffs,  to  hunt 
down,  to  catch  and  shackle  the  supposed  fugitive.  But 
there  were  no  handcuffs  nor  chains.  The  master  was 
there.  He  had  come  in  high  spirits  over  his  unani- 
mous nomination  for  State  senator,  and  the  mistress 
was  there  sharing  his  elation,  good  natured  as  ever, 
but  ready  to  scold  me  for  my  truancy. 

“Where  in  the  world  have  you  been  all  the  after- 
noon, you  lazy  rascal,  leaving  your  young  mistress 
all  alone  by  herself?  Joe  tells  me  that  you  and  Sally 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


have  both  been  gone  to  the  woods — nest-hunting,  111 
be  bound — and  not  a soul  to  wait  upon  Virginia,  and 
if  it  wasn’t  that  she  begged  so  piteously  for  you, 

I would  have  Joe  to  whip  you  both.  And  now  I want 
to  tell  you — I lay  down  this  law— if  ever  I go  off  again 
and  leave  you  to  take  care  of  her  and  come  back  and 
find  you  gone  from  the  house  I shall  have  you  bucked 
down  and  fifty  lashes  upon  your  bare  back.  Do  you 
understand  me!” 

“Yes,  ma’am,”  I humbly  replied,  glad,  almost  bless- 
ing her,  for  her  reproaches. 

“Now,  run  up  to  her  room  and  see  if  your  Miss 
Virginia  wants  you.  I found  her  crying  with  the  head- 
ache when  I came.” 

I could  not  repress  a sight  of  relief,  notwithstanding 
the  desperate  resolve  I had  made  to  have  it  out  at 
once  if  needs  be,  and  anxious  to  say  or  do  something 
I knew  not  what,  to  soothe  her  I hurried  up  and  softly 
knocked. 

“Come  in,”  she  said,  and  my  keen  solicitude  detected 
a hollowness  in  her  voice. 

Steadying  my  own  nerves  with  a desperate  energy, 

I went  in. 

She  shrank  back  with  a little  start  and  threw  up 
her  hands  as  if  to  wave  me  away. 

“Your  mother  bid  me  come!”  I started  to  explain,  ' 
when  she  burst  out: 

“My  mother— ah,  poor,  foolish  mamma.  Why,  why, 
oh,  why,  could  she  not  see?  Oh,  Paul,  my  heart  is 
broken.  Oh,  why  did  you?”  and  covering  her  face 
with  her  hands  she  burst  into  a paroxism  of  weep- 
ing. What  could  I do  or  say — save  fall  at  her  feet 
and  kiss  them,  and  clutch  her  knee  in  my  agony  of 
remorse  and  sorrow  for  her  wretched,  heart-broken 
condition. 

For  a moment  she  sobbed,  and  then  holding  back 
her  tears  she  went  on : 

“You  should  have  saved  me,  Paul,  from  my  own  self- 
— for  oh,  I do — do  love  you  so.” 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


127 


“And  I,  my  sweet  mistress/ ’ I cried,  at  last,  find- 
ing my  tongue,  “I  will  willingly  do  anything,  I will 
gladly  die  to  save  you  now.  It  is  for  this  I wished 
to  see  you  again— to  ask  you  to  let  me  go  to  your 
father  and  tell  him  how,  how  grievously  I have 
wronged  you,  and  let  my  death  at  the  stake  atone  for  it 
all.” 

4 * Oh,  no,  no,  no ! you  do  not  know  what  they  would 
do?  They  would  kill  you — they  would  murder  you! 
You  know  not  how  terrible  their  vengeance  would 
be.  No,  that  must  never  be.  It  is  madness  to  talk  so! 
And  besides,  Paul,  it  was  not  you  alone.  It  was  my 
fault,  too — mine  more  than  yours.  My  own  great  love 
for  you  betrayed  me  and  I cannot  find  it  in  my  heart 
to  blame  you.  Oh,  if  I — I myself  could  die  and  let 
my  death  undo  it  all,  I — I would  wish  to  die,  but  no 
harm  must  come  to  you.  Oh,  no,  Paul;  do  not  you 
ever,  ever  think  of  such  a thing  again.” 

“But  darling,  the  thought  of  your  sorrow  almost 
drives  me  to  some  desperate  expedient.  What  can  I 
do  to  comfort  you  ? Tell  me  something,  please,  or  your 
distress  will  madden  me,”  I cried,  still  retaining  my 
attitude  of  suppliance  at  her  feet. 

“There  is  nothing,  Paul,”  she  said,  bidding  me  to 
rise,  “only  you,  you  must  not  despise  me.  Oh,  I can 
not  bear  the  thought  of  that,  Paul.  I care  not  for 
all  the  world  beside,  but  do  not  you  think  me  bad,”  she 
cried  piteously,  stretching  out  her  hands  to  me. 

“And  were  I ingrate — brute  enough — for  such  a 
thought  I should  ask  God  to  visit  upon  me  His  most 
horrible,  ineffable  curse.  No,  no,  darling,  to  me  you 
are  as  an  angel  of  heaven,  the  sweetest  and  the  best 
— and  I pray  God  that  I alone  may  bear  the  conse- 
quences of  my  act.” 

I am  sure  that  my  sincerity  and  earnestness,  my 
own  apparent  wretchedness  of  spirit  fully  impressed 
her  and  in  a measure  sustained  her  in  this  her  supreme 
hour  of  anguish.  She  shrank  not  away — as  she  first  did 
— and  I seized  her  hand  and  showered  kisses  upon  kisses 


128  THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 

upon  it — kisses  from  which  all  the  fire  of  passion  had 
been  burned — in  which  all  the  sympathy,  all  the  ten- 
derness of  my  heart  and  its  hopes  for  her  own  eternal 
salvation  were  poured  forth  in  a speechful  devotion, 
little  short  of  idolatry.  When  we  both  had  recovered 
somewhat  our  mental  composure,  our  thoughts  returned 
to  things  about  us  and  I,  to  further  restore  her  equan- 
imity, asked: 

“But,  Miss  Virginia,  what  is  it  you  will  do?  Can 
you  go  down  to  the  table  or  shall  I fetch  your  supper 
to  you  here?” 

“No,  not  you.  You  must  keep  away  from  me,  Paul, 
no  matter  what  mamma  may  order.  But  now  I will 
wash  my  face  and  go  down.  Please  go  away,  Paul, 
and  do,  oh,  please  do  not  despise  me.” 

“You  are  as  sacred  to  me  as  an  angel,”  I vehemently 
answered,  as  I turned  to  go. 

“And,  Paul,  one  more  word,”  she  cried  calling  me 
back,  ‘ ‘ you  must  not  wrong  me  by  thinking  it  was  € or — 
for  that  I sent  for  you  to  come  to  me.  That  it  was  to 
tempt  you  I lay  as  I did  before  you — for  indeed  it  was 
not.  God  knows  I loved  you  and  so  longed  for  your 
nearness,  and  to  have  your  arms  about  me,  but  it  was 
not  for  that.  Even  when  I asked  you  to  take  me  I did 
not  know  the  danger  we  both  were  in.  You  must  not 
think  so  wrong  of  me,  Paul.  ’ ' 

I had  not  thought  it — but  had  the  thought  been 
burned  in  my  brain  a mortal  conviction,  the  truth  in 
her  eyes  now,  as  she  so  piteously  appealed  to  me,  even 
to  me,  her  ravisher,  for  charity  would  have  told  me  how 
wretchedly  I had  wronged  her. 

“No,  my  sweet  mistress,  I shall  not  think  that  of 
you.  Could  I so  think,  my  own  remorse  would  be  less 
bitter.  Ah,  no  darling,  let  us  feel  that  it  was  our 
destiny — that  Pate  has  thrown  our  lives  together,  and 
that  I nor  you  could  have  resisted  its  decree  no  more 
than  the  roses  can  refuse  to  bloom  when  the  spring  sun 
warms  them  into  fragrance.  Please,  Miss  Virginia, 
take  heart  and  let  me  bare  all  the  blame.” 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


129 


“No,  I cannot  be  so  simple  as  that.  I was  to  blame. 
Bwt  you  must  help  me,  Paul,  to  bear  it.  Your  strength 
of  character,  now,  must  save  me,  as  your  great  strength 
of  arm,  of  loin  and  of  thigh  has  undone  me.  I will  go 
dnvn  now.  Will  my  eyes  betray  me?  Are  they  very 
red!” 

Those  blessed  eyes,  so  sweet  in  their  pathos,  had  bee* 
sealded  with  tears,  but  she  had  forced  them  dry,  and 
now  though  the  lids  were  swollen,  they  shone  as  sweet- 
ly bright  as  ever,  as  with  a courage  more  than  Spartan, 
she  went  down  to  hide  by  a smiling  face  the  secret  that 
lay  so  heavily  upon  her  heart. 

And  then,  after  supper,  to  assure  her  mother’s  anx- 
ious solicitude  about  her  headache,  she  went  into  the 
muse  room  to  sing  for  her  father. 

like  a bird  she  carolled  two  or  three  little  airs  apd 
then  by  a grim  mockery  of  chance  he  asked  her  to  sing 
“Bvaleen’s  Bower,”  one  of  his  old-time  favorites.  I 
stood  in  the  dark  without  and  watched  her  as  she  sang, 
and  my  heart  bled  as  it  blessed  her  for  the  fortitude 
with  which  she  sang  the  sweet,  sad  story,  so  painfully 
suggestive  of  her  own  bitter  shame.  It  was  pathetic 
and  touching— but  the  sorrow  of  soul  that  gave  it  its 
pathos  was  accredited  to  her  skill,  as  with  a kiss  her 
father  thanked  her  for  the  plaintive  sweetness  of  her 
song. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


WELCOME  VISITORS. 


For  some  time  I studiously  avoided  her  presence  and 
was  beginning  to  dread  that  my  dereliction  of  duties 
would  again  fall  under  the  notice  of  my  mistress,  when 
the  arrival  of  visiting  relatives  brought  a happy  relief 
to  both  of  us.  These  were  her  aunt,  Marie  Noltrieb, 
her  mother’s  sister,  and  her  pretty  cousin  and  prospec- 
tive sister-in-law,  Isaura. 

They  came  with  a retinue  of  servants  for  a visit  of 
several  days,  and  in  the  companionship  of  the  lively 
young  lady,  my  gentle  young  mistress  forgot  something 
of  her  sad  unrest  and  found  immunity  from  the  em- 
barrassment of  my  presence,  when  my  duties  brought 
us  together. 

Miss  Noltrieb  wras  a bright,  pretty  girl,  a few 
months  the  senior  of  my  young  mistress,  full  of  hoiden 
spirits  with  a soupcon  of  something  more  charmingly 
piquant.  It  was  really  refreshing  to  hear  her  bright  lit- 
tle sallies  of  wit,  and  the  naive  sparkle  of  her  humor, 
and  in  the  clatter  of  her  tongue  feven  my  own  oppression 
of  soul  found  a respite,  as  I am  sure  that  my  gentle- 
hearted  mistress  felt  its  revivifying  effect. 

I loved  to  hear,  unnoticed  of  course,  her  pretty  tattle, 
with  its  little  surprises  of  wit  and  bold  flashes  of  fun, 
sometimes  more  piquant  than  modest,  more  dainty  than 
proper,  albeit  the  notice  she  first  so  graciously  deigned 
to  take  of  me  was  more  flattering  to  my  pride  of  looks 
than  to  my  intelligence. 

It  was  during  the  day  after  their  arrival,  I had  been 
ealled  out  on  the  lawn  to  lay  off  and  set  the  croquet 
wickets  for  the  young  people,  that  after  watching  my 

130 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE.  131 

movements  for  awhile,  she  suddenly  turned  to  my 
young  mistress  and  said: 

‘ 1 Oh,  Cousin,  I must  tell  you  what  a charmingly  hand- 
some waiting-boy  you  have — what  a magnificent  stature 
he  has — almost  an  Apollo— and  how  elegantly  he 
moves?  Look  at  his  legs,  how  trim  and  well-rounded 
and  straight!  Negro  that  he  is,  I don't  think  I ever 
saw  so  handsome  a leg  before.  It  makes  one  almost 
want  to  squeeze  it.  Why,  he  would  do  for  a model 
for  Apollo.  Did  you  ever  notice  him?" 

“Yes,  I think  Paul  a very  strong,  finely  built  man," 
blushingly  answered  my  young  mistress. 

“And  a surprisingly  handsome  one,  too —good 
enough  looking  for  a white  man.  And  let  me  tell  you, 
Coz,  how  frightened  I was  this  morning  when  he  came 
into  my  room  to  fetch  the  water." 

“Frightened?"  with  a quick  inquiry. 

“Yes,  positively  shocked.  It  was  really  too  funny.  I 
vras  lazy,  you  know,  and  had  just  got  up,  and  was  sit- 
ting in  my  chemise— yes,  with  not  another  blessed 
thread  on — almost  as  naked  as  a skinned  rat,  flat  on  the 
~ floor,  buckling  my  garter,  when  someone  knocked,  and 
thinking  it  was  Nannette,  I told  her  to  come,  and  the 
door  opened  and  in  he  came.  I saw  his  feet  and  legs 
first  and  they  looked  so  really  nice  and  trim  and  elegant 
I thought  it  wras  a man,  and  you  just  ought  to  have  seen 
me  pulling  down  my  chemise  with  one  hand  and  hiding 
my  bosoms  (applying  a term  less  elegant,  I must  con- 
fess) with  the  other.  I never  felt'  so  infinitesimally 
small  before  in  all  my  life — all  except  my  bosoms  (ap- 
plying a still  more  suggestive  term)  and  they  seemed 
bigger  than  hay-cocks.  But  I had  to  look  up,  and  oh, 
you  don't  know  how  relieved  I was  to  find  it  was  a 
negro,  and  then  he  spoke  so  respectfully  and  never 
once  looked,  that  I felt  at  my  ease  on  the  instant,  and 
when  he  had  arranged  the  washstand  and  I had  put 
on  my  boots,  I had  him  to  lace  them  for  me,  which  he 
did  just  the  nicest  you  ever  saw,  kneeling  as  gallantly 
as  a gentleman,  and  never  once  squeezing  my  ankle  nor 


132 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


trying  to  look  up,  as  I am  sure  a gentleman  -would 
have  done.  Oh,  Cousin  Jenny,  I would  give  the  world 
lor  just  such  a fellow  to  wait  upon  me.  Now,  would 
you  let  me  have  him,  if  1 can  persuade  mamma  to  get 
papa  to  buy  him  for  me?” 

“Oh,  I don’t  think  that  mamma  would  let  him  go, 
and  I am  equally  sure  that  papa  would  not  sell  him/* 
was  the  evasive  answer,  made  with  a little  blush. 

“Yes,  but  if  you  don’t  care,  I am  quite  as  sure  I can 
beg  him  into  it.  How  would  you  like  to  live  with  me, 
Buck?  What’s  his  name.  Cousin?” 

“ ‘Paul.’  His  name  is  ‘Paul’,”  was  the  curt  answer. 

“Ah,  ‘Paul,’  that  is  nice  itself.  Say,  Paul,  how  would 
yeu  like  to  have  me  for  your  mistress  ? ’ ’ she  continued, 
ierning  to  me. 

“I  am  sure  you  would  make  a good  mistress,”  I 
answered. 

‘ * Yes,  I suspect  I would  soon  spoil  you.  Only  there  is 
mamma.  Mamma  is  so  prudish — so  much  like  an  old 
maid  Presbyterian.  Do  you  know,  Cousin  Jenny,  that 
she  is  getting  so  she  won’t  let  us  girls  have  a negro  boy 
about  the  house?  ’She  says  they  would  be  sure  to  be 
seeing  things — like  there  was  anything  in  that  ? ’ ’ 

“And  I think  Aunt  Marie  is  wise  in  doing  so.  We 
girls  are  apt  to  be  too  careless,”  soberly  put  in  my 
young  mistress. 

“Tut.  Who  would  care  if  they  did?  I am  sure  our 
mammas  had  better  look  after  their  boys  instead  of 
watching  you  and  me  so  closely.  They  have  just  as 
much  fun  as  they  please  with  the  yellow  girls.” 

“Oh,  Cousin  Isaura,”  with  a blushing  protest. 

“Yes,  but  they  do  though.  They  are  all  alike,  Al- 
phonse, Eugene  and  Pierre,  and  mamma  don’t  seem  te 
care  a fig  about  it.  Why,  Eugene  and  Pierre  actually 
had  a fight  about  Eloise,  the  new  quadroon  girl  papa 
bought  for  me  last  Christmas.” 

“That  was  shocking!” 

“No,  it  wasn’t,  for  she  is  really  a very  pretty  girl — 
almost  as  white  as  I am — with  a lissom  figure  and  a 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLATE. 


13* 

beautiful  bust.  I almost  envy  her  her  embonpoint  (she 
didn't  call  them  that).  But,  la!  Coz,  you  needn't  be 
making  such  awful  eyes  at  me.  Cousin  Victor  is  just 
as  bad  at  my  brothers.  Oh,  yes  he  is,  for  I caught  him 
myself,  him  and  your  girl,  Sally,  last  Christmas  when 
I was  here." 

“Caught  him?"  with  an  indignant  protest. 

“Yes,  caught  him  chucking  Sally's  chin  and  fooling 
around  with  her  in  a most  indecent  way,  and  I am  sure 
he  was  fixing  his  fences  just  like  all  the  rest  of  the  boys. 
When  the  sly  hussy  looked  around  to  watch  and  hap- 
pened to  see  me  peeping  through  the  window,  you 
should  have  seen  her  look  of  consternation.  I could 
hardly  keep  from  crying,  ‘boo!'  at  him,  the  naughty 
fellow.  I intend  to  tell  him  about  it  the  very  first  night 
we  are  married.  I shall  hold  him  off  a week  for  it. 
You  see  if  I don't." 

“The  wickets  are  ready,  Miss  Virginia.  Do  they 
suit  you?"  I interrupted,  having  finished  my  work  as 
the  young  lady  finished  her  rather  piquant  narrative. 

“Oh,  yes,  very  well,  and  you  may  go,  now,"  and  t© 
her  relief,  as  well  as  my  own,  I respectfully  retired. 

I have  given  the  colloquy  in  its  pert  and  pointed  ex- 
pressions,— only  lacking  such  vernacular  diction  as 
would  seem  wholly  indecent,  and  the  charming  little 
shrugs  and  winks  and  nods  with  which  the  young  lady 
emphasized  their  meaning — not  to  fill  in  a shadow  in 
the  picture  of  the  old  southern  home  life,  but  simply  t© 
illustrate  more  fully  the  unheeded  danger  to  which 
the  lives  and  the  hearts,  to  say  nothing  of  the  morals, 
both  of  master  and  mistress,  as  well  as  of  the  negr© 
man  and  the  negro  girl  were  exposed. 

That  evening  I appeared  in  the  music  room,  in  re- 
sponse to  a summons  from  my  mistress,  to  sing  the  Mar- 
seillaise hymn  for  Aune  Marie — in  truth,  she  was  my 
father's  own  cousin — and  the  subject  of  buying  me  was 
brought  up  again. 

I rendered  the  hymn  with  more  than  ordinary  em- 
pressement,  for  I felt  that  it  would  please  my  sweet, 


134 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


young  mistress,  and  had  to  respond  to  an  encore,  when 
the  aunt  broke  out  with  a sigh: 

“Ah,  Gustave,  how  that  reminds  me  of  poor,  dear 
Jules. 7 ? 

Poor,  dear  Jules  would,  had  he  lived,  have  been  her 
husband,  as  French-like  they  had  been  betrothed  to  each 
©ther  while  children,  and  notwithstanding  the  lapse  of 
all  these  years,  through  which  she  had  rendered  a duti- 
ful response  to  the  conjugal  regards  of  Major  Nottrieb, 
she  yet  carried  in  her  memory  a rosy  and  tender  place 
for  poor,  dear  Jules— so  untimely  slain. 

“Yes,  and  of  my  father;  we  have  all  remarked  it,  and 
I told  Pauline  that  it  almost  converts  me  to  the  Pytha- 
gorean theory  of  the  transmigration  of  souls.  I can 
almost  believe  that  it  is  the  soul  of  my  father  and  of 
Jules  that  I hear  singing  in  Paul,”  answered  the  master, 
soberly. 

“And  Aunty,  dear,  I want  to  beg  you,”  cried  Miss 
Isaura,  dramatically,  kneeling  at  my  mistress’  feet  and 
gushingly  kissing  her  hand,  “I  want  you  to  give  him 
to  me  and  let  papa  buy  him.  Now,  Aunt  Pauline,  won’t 
you?” 

“Oh!  but  Paul  belongs  to  Virginia,  and  she,  i am 
sure,  could  not  do  without  him,”  smilingly  answered  the 
aunt. 

“No,  but  I have  asked  her,  and  she  says  I may.  Oh, 
Aunty,  darling-,  please  give  him  to  me?  Let  me  have 
him.  He  is  no  nice — so  handy  about  the  room  and  waits 
upon  one  so  charmingly.  He  is  so  much  better  than  a 
negro  girl.  He  laced  my  boots  for  me  this  morning  as 
Nannette  never  could  have  laced  them.  There  was  not 
a wrinkle  in  them  all  day  and  they  are  just  as  easy  as 
slippers.  Oh,  Aunt  ! you  must  let  me  have  him;  Cousin 
Jenny,  doesn’t  care.” 

“No,  no;  I need  him  myself.  You  may  have  one  of 
my  eye  teeth  if  you  like,  but  I cannot  spare  Paul. 
Why,  he  is  my  conjurer  and  I should  die  from  my 
rheumatism  if  you  were  to  take  him. 9 9 

“Conjurer?”  with  a pretty  opening  of  her  eyes. 


135 


S THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 

“Yes,  to  conjure  the  rheumatism  away.  I verily 
believe  I should  have  died  long  ago  if  it  had  not  been 
for  Paul  rubbing  me.” 

“Yes,”  playfully  broke  in  the  master,  “yes,  Marie, 
Pauline  has  made  a wonderful  discovery.  She  has  found 
the  veritable  elixir  of  life  itself,  and  it  exudes  from 
Paul's  fingers.  She  keeps  the  poor  negro's  palms  sore 
with  rubbing  her  back  and  knees.” 

“Yes,  sister  was  telling  me  about  his  wonderful  pow- 
er, and  I shall  have  him  to  rub  me  tonight  when  I go  t© 
bed.  I can  very  well  understand  the  principle  of  the  sur- 
charged strength  and  vitality  of  the  strong  flowing  out 
to  and  revivifying  the  weak.  It  is  a scientific  truth  only 
recently  discovered.  It  is  called  the  ‘od'  or  ‘odic  force.* 
M.  Beichenback  has  successfully  demonstrated  its  truth 
and  analyzed  its  principle.  Ah,  it  is  a wonderful  dis- 
covery. Do  you  hear,  Buck,”  turning  to  me,  as  I stood 
in  a respectful  back-ground,  “I  shall  want  you  to  com© 
to  me  after  awhile  and  mesmerize  me  to  sleep.  My 
knees  are  as  stiff  as  a rusty  gate  hinge  and  you  must  re- 
vivify them  with  your  hands.” 

Madam  Noltrieb  had  a smattering  of  scientific  knowl- 
edge and  she  never  missed  an  opportunity  to  display  it. 

“And,  mamma,  you  will  make  papa  buy  him  for  me, 
if  Aunt  Pauline  will  sell  him?”  appealed  the  impor- 
tunate young  lady,  turning  to  her  mother. 

“We  will  see,  darling.** 

“Oh!  I am  so  glad.  Now,  Aunty,  dear,  you — you 
must  let  me  have  him.  Mustn't  she,  Uncle?” 

“No,  no — not  now,  darling,”  smilingly  answered  the 
mistress,  “wait  until  after  Victor  comes  home  and  you 
two  are  married,  and  then  maybe,  if  Virginia  doesn’t 
care,  you  may  have  him.  * * 

“Ah,  no! — that  is  too  long  to  wait — and  besides  I 
shall  not  need  him  then,  no  how.** 

“Not  need  him  then?  Why?” 

“Because  I will  have  Victor,  then,  and  he  will  be 
enough. ' * 

“Yes,  but  you  must  not  put  too  much  upon  Victor,  or 


136 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


you  two  will  soon  tire  of  one  another.  It  will  he  very 
nice  for  him  to  lace  your  boots  for  a month  or  so,  but 
the  pleasure  will  cease  to  please  when  it  becomes  a 
service.  Anyhow,  Pet,  you  must  not  ask  me  for  Paul, 
now.  I can  not  spare  him,”  and  to  end  the  matter,  she 
pleasantly  kissed  the  pouting  lips  and  pushed  the 
young  lady  away. 

I had  no  means  of  measuring  the  quantity  of  odic 
fluid  my  perspiring  palms  infused  into  the  fat  but  some- 
what flaccid  calves  and  knees  of  the  lady  that  night,  as 
disrobed  for  slumber,  she  sat  upon  her  couch  with  her 
feet  in  my  lap,  but  as  it  soon  set  her  bare  toes  to  con- 
vulsively digging  in  my  groins  and  caused  a succession 
of  soft  self-satisfied  cackles,  which  in  a young  lady 
would  no  doubt  have  been  giggles,  I presumed  it  was 
enough  to  satisfy  her  of  the  truth  of  her  new  theory. 

At  any  rate,  after  some  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  of 
vigorous  rubbing  on  my  part,  she  dropped  back  on  her 
pillow;  the  little  cackles  gave  place  to  progressive 
snores,  and  with  a surfeited  kick  she  dismissed  me.  As 
gently  as  I could  I composed  her  limbs  to  a restful 
position,  and  softly  withdrew,  leaving  her  to  pleasant 
dreams  of  her  absent  lord  or,  perhaps,  of  the  “poor, 
dear  Jules.” 

“This  negro  of  yours,  Pauline,  is  worth  his  weight 
in  gold,”  she  began  the  next  morning  as  she  greeted 
her  sister.  “He  has  the  true  mesmeric  touch.  I could 
feel  the  thrill  as  soon  as  he  touched  my  knee.  He  put 
me  to  sleep  almost  in  a moment  and  I slept  like  a babe 
all  night.” 

“Yes,  I told  you  so.” 

“And,  Pauline,  isn’t  it  strange  that  the  negroes  more 
than  all  others  seem  gifted  with  this  wonderful  power  ? 
All  the  old  astrologers  and  magicians  of  the  olden  times 
were  negroes.  You  know  the  history  of  “Aladdin  and 
the  "Wonderful  Lamp.”  Well  you  recollect  the  ma- 
gician there  was  an  African.  That  dark  and  mysterious 
land  seems  to  be  the  home  of  magic  and  of  the  subtle 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


137 


forces.  I repeat  it,  sister  Pauline,  Paul  is  worth  his 
weight  in  gold.” 

“Yes,  indeed,  and  I wouldn’t  take  a million  for  him. 
I don’t  care  how  much  Gustave  laughs  at  me  for  my 

fancy.” 

“And  you  will  not  sell  him?” 

“Sell  him?  No.  I should  as  soon  sell  Gustave  him- 
self. I can’t  spare  Paul — neither  can  Virginia — so  there 
is  no  further  use  to  discuss  it.  ’ ’ 

This  was  Saturday.  Their  visit  was  protracted  until 
the  following  Tuesday,  when  the  young  mistress  went 
home  with  them  to  be  gone  indefinitely,  leaving  the 
house  strangely  dark  and  lonesomely  dull. 

I had  no  idea  of  all  that  her  presence  was  to  me  until 
she  had  gone.  How  empty,  indeed,  was  my  life  without 
her?  In  her  absence,  I realized  that  she  was  the  very 
light  of  my  existence.  The  world  was  a perpetual  mid- 
night and  heaven  itself  would  be  dark  without  her.  How 
I longed  to  look  upon  her  sweet  face  once  more,  and 
•ateh  again  the  fragrance  of  her  presence — to  hear 
again  the  voice  that  was  a heavenly  music  to  my  ears? 
Sow  leaden  seemed  the  feet  of  Time  during  that  in- 
terminable absence  ? Each  hour  seemed  to  me  a year — 
each  day  an  eternity.  ' And  when,  after  days  of  anxious 
longing  and  waiting  for  her  return,  the  carriage  drove 
*p,  and  I caught  the  smile  of  gladness  which  beamed 
Irom  her  beautiful  countenance,  as  she  stepped  out,  I 
•ould  have  fallen  at  her  feet  and  clutched  her  knees 
for  very  joy.  I am  sure  she  read  aright  the  emotions 
•f  my  heart,  for  quickly  releasing  herself  from  the 
fond  embrace  of  her  mother,  she  ran  directly  to  her 
room. 

“Paul,  have  you  fresh  water?  Fetch  me  a pitcher- 
ful,” she  cried,  almost  excitedly,  smiling  significantly^ 
and,  oh,  so  sweetly,  as  she  passed  me. 

In  a minute  more  I was  in  her  presence.  Ah,  yes, 
there  was  the  same  glorious  love-light  in  her  eyes,  the 
same  sweet  smile  on  her  lips,  the  same  fragrance  of 


138 


THE  STOKY  OF  A SLAVE. 


heaven  in  her  breath,  as  I filled  and  handed  her  the 
glass. 

“Thanks,  that  is  so  nice,”  sipping  the  cooling 
draught  and  then  putting  away  the  goblet,  she  turned 
to  her  maid. 

“Sally,  run  down  and  see  if  I haven’t  left  my  fan  in 
the  carriage.”  And  then  as  Sally  disappeared  she 
turned  with  the  warm  glow  of  a womanly  love  flushing 
her  sweet  face,  and  putting  her  arms  up  to  my  neck  and 
laying  her  head  against  my  heart,  lovingly  murmured : 

“Oh,  Paul,  dear,  dear  Paul,  I have  come  back  to 
you.  I have  struggled  so  hard,  so  long  against  my  love, 
but  I could  not  stifle  it.  Oh,  darling,  I love  you,  I love 
you,  and  I cannot  live  without  you.” 

I could  only  stoop  and  kiss  her  head,  her  glorious 
hair,  as  I softly  enclosed  her  in  my  arms,  and  then  as 
gently  releasing  her  I said: 

“And  you  may  never  know,  my  sweet,  gentle  mis- 
tress, what  a gladness  your  coming  has  brought  me. 
Oh,  how  my  very  soul  blesses  you  that  you  have  come ! ’ ’ 

“Yes,  I can  know,  for  I read  it  in  your  eyes.  Your 
soul  spoke  its  gladness  to  me  through  your  eyes,  and 
eh,  it  made  me  feel  so  happy.  But  now,  darling,  oae 
little  kiss,  quickly,  for  Sally  is  coming.  ’ ’ 

I did  not  stoop  to  kiss  her,  but  winding  my  arms 
about  her  waist  I lifted  her  bodily  up  to  my  lips  aad 
then  gently  put  her  down.  I went  out  just  as  the  de 
trop  Sally  came  back  with  the  missing  fan. 

The  music  that  evening  was  one  sweet  trill  of  love 
and  gladness,  thrilling  with  its  nameless  magic  every 
fibre  of  my  being,  as  I listened  from  my  place  on  the 
portico. 

The  nest  morning  I read  for  her  as  she  rested  in  her 
swing.  It  was  form  a little  volume  of  poems  by  Harry 
Flash,  our  own  Mobile  poet — alas,  now  dead  and  almost 
forgotten,  but  breathing  while  he  lived  the  divine  af- 
flatus of  the  poet.  It  was  a song  of  what  the  “Little 
Bird  Told  Me,”  with  its  gleeful  refrain: 

“She  loves  me,  she  loves  me,” 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


139 


that  pleased  me  best  of  all,  and  even  after  dinner  had 
been  announced  and  she  had  gone  up  to  her  room  to 
dress,  I kept  repeating  it  as  I put  the  book  away. 

The  afternoon  was  balmy  and  delightful  and  there 
was  heaven  in  her  eyes  as  she  called  to  me  after  I had 
my  dinner. 

4 ‘ Have  out  Dido,  Paul,  and  Selim;  we  will  have  a 
ride,  nowr — a long,  long  ride  out  into  the  woods  and  all 
among  the  flowers,  the  wild  roses  and  honeysuckles, 
the  jessamines  and  lilies,  ” she  said  archly,  and  then 
ran  up  to  her  room  to  arrange  her  toilet. 

I hurriedly  brought  out  the  horses  and  asking  Jake  to 
hold  them  for  me,  I ran  up  to  my  little  cuddy  to  array 
myself  in  my  best — my  very  best  attire.  It  was  my 
habit  as  well  as  duty  to  be  always  cleanly  in  my  person 
and  tidy  in  my  dress.  It  was  no  idle  threat  the  mistress 
had  once  made,  that  each  fleck  of  dirt  found  on  the 
linen  of  one  of  the  house  negroes,  was  to  be  whipped  off 
with  the  cowhide.  The  order  was  no  reluctantly  obeyed 
command  to  me,  but  a luxury  and  I always  was  cleanly 
as  well  as  tastefully  dressed.  But  on  this  occasion  Beau 
Brummell  himself  would  have  with  difficulty  picked  a 
flaw  in  the  immaculate  purity  of  my  attire,  as  drawing 
on  my  well-fitting  coat,  I went  down  from  my  cuddy 
and  announced  that  the  horses  were  ready. 

I found  her  waiting,  v radiantly,  lovely,  rosy  and 
sweet.  I may  never  be  able  to  express  the  feelings  that 
so  deliciously  thrilled  me  as  I lifted  her,  the  beautiful 
darling  of  my  life,  to  her  seat  in  the  saddle,  and  quickly 
mounting,  followed  her  lead.  Followed?  Where?  Ah, 
little  did  I think  or  care.  Had  it  been  into  the  gaping 
jaws  of  death  itself,  I should  have  pressed  on  eagerly 
after. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


LOVE  REIGNS  SUPREME. 


I had  during  her  absence  given  the  horses  a daily 
exercise  around  the  fields,  but  the  long  rest  had  some- 
what pampered  them  and  feeling  their  spirits  now,  they 
needed  no  whip  or  spur  to  urge  them  on,  as  the  young 
mistress  led  the  way  straight  through  the  lane  to  the 
woods,  her  magnificent  mare  coquettishly  turning  her 
neck  and  tossing  her  head  back  as  if  to  challenge  my 
equally  lusty  stallion  to  catch  and  master  her  if  he 
could.  I thought  of  the  rampant  chase  of  Adonis’  fiery 
charger  and  caught  something  of  the  voluptuous  spirit. 

It  was  a matter  of  three  miles  we  galloped  before  we 
entered  the  wood,  and  she  drew  up  to  let  me  approach 
to  a familiar  nearness. 

It  was  a delightful  May  afternoon.  The  fields  were 
full  of  fragrance  and  the  woods  with  bloom.  The  crab- 
apple,  the  hawthorn,  the  yellow  jessamine,  the  wood- 
bine, the  wild  rose,  the  honeysuckle  and  lily,  and 
grandest  of  all  the  magnolia,  all  were  out  in  their 
fragrant  splendor,  filling  the  air  with  their  intoxicating 
perfume. 

“Now,  Paul,”  she  said  in  her  musically  tender  voice, 
giving  me  a look  of  such  languishing  sweetness  as  melt- 
ed my  already  suffused  heart  into  a fountain  of  liquid 
joy,  “we  will  ride  to  the  cave.  It  was  there,  Paul, 
that  first  came  to  me  the  sweet,  wild  and  fluttering 
consciousness  of  love — a love  that  is  stronger  to  ate 
than  life,  sweeter  than  heaven,  and  sorrowing  almost 
as  death.  I have  tried  to  stifle  that  love,  to  scorn  it, 
to  choke  it  with  the  contempt  I feel  for  my  own  weak- 
ness and  shante,  but  I cannot.  I have  prayed  to  my 

140 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


141 

God  to  help  me  put  it  from  my  heart  and  to  save  me 
from  its  sin,  but  I cannot.  I am  but  mortal,  and  can 
struggle  no  longer.  It  has  been  my  bitterest  shame. 
You  must  make  it  my  greatest  joy.  I have  come,  Paul, 
to  surrender  myself  to  you — my  life,  my  soul,  my  heart, 
my  all.  All  that  I have  and  all  that  I am  is  yours, 
dear  Paul,  all,  all  your  own— to  love,  to  fondle,  to 
caress,  if  you  will,  or  to — to  contemn  and  despise. 
In  kisses  I shall  pledge  you  a love  as  true,  as  deep,  as 
reverent  and  as  pure  as  ever  bride  pledged  to  husband. 
I shall  ask  of  you  no  pledge  in  return,  for  in  the  soul 
I have  given  you  I know  that  you  love  me.” 

I could  not  answer  with  words,  only  through  the 
light  of  my  eyes,  she  saw  in  my  own  soul  a love  as 
strong,  as  tender,  as  deep,  as  o’erpowering  as  her 
own. 

The  little  turn  through  the  tangled  woods  was  made 
in  silence,  and  we  soon  drew  up  on  a bank  of  the 
cave. 

The  season  had  made  a delightful  change  in  the 
place.  The  dank,  slimy  sides  of  the  chasm  were  now 
tufted  with  little  beds  of  wild  daisies  and  snow-drops, 
and  pinks  and  violets.  The  overhanging  vines  that 
earlier  looked  like  creeping  things  of  ill-omen,  were 
now  thick  with  green  and  purple,  hanging  in  grace- 
ful festoons  to  curtain  the  chamber  below.  The  water 
had  all  dried  from  the  bottom  and  the  smooth  white 
sand  lay  soft  and  cool  as  some  ocean  beach. 

In  the  center  of  the  circular  chamber,  as  if  raised 
for  a throne  or  couch  for  the  Queen  of  the  Naiads,  was 
a little  bank  where  the  tufted  grass,  soft,  strong  and 
willowy,  by  knitting  its  roots  together  and  sinking 
them  deep  in  the  sod  had  held  the  earth  from  wash- 
ing, while  the  abrading  current  of  the  winter  stream 
wearing  down  the  sand  around,  had  left  it  a tiny  oasis 
of  daisies  and  green  in  that  minature  desert  of  white. 

‘ ‘ Oh,  how  pretty ! and  what  a fitting  bower  for  love 
wild  as  ours,”  she  cried,  looking  down  into  the  charm- 
ing grot.  “Let  us  ride  around  and  down  there,  Paul, 


142 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


and  and — gather  the — the  daisies,”  she  added,  with  a 
rosy,  rosy  blush  and  soft  drooping  eyes. 

A path  around  led  down  the  hill  to  a level  with  the 
mouth  of  the  little  canyon.  An  mate  sense  of  manful- 
ness told  me  to  lead  the  way — that  she,  my  sweet 
mistress,  had  shown  me  the  roses  and  it  was  now  my 
place  to  pluck  them.  And  still,  too  dumb  with  joy 
to  even  -thank  her  for  her  grace,  I rode  forward,  scan- 
ning, as  I went,  the  vista  around  for  any  possible  dan- 
ger of  surprise  from  profane  intrusion.  But  the  re- 
treat was  safe  and  sacred,  and  when  I drew  up  at  the 
entrance  below  I dismounted,  and  securely  fastening 
my  horse,  turned  and  lifted  her  down  in  my  arms,  hold- 
ing her  only  long  enough  to  reassure  her  shrinking 
modesty  with  a kiss. 

“Stand  here  a moment,  sweet,  until  I prepare  you  a 
seat,”  I tenderly  whispered,  and  then  tethering  her 
mare,  I gathered  great  armfuls  of  the  clustering  hon- 
eysuckles and  spread  them  upon  the  center  bank,  al- 
ready soft  with  its  grassy  carpet,  while  she  stood  look- 
ing on  in  shy  curiosity  and  blushing  confusion.  And 
then  when  I had  finished  that  divan  of  roses,  I went 
to  her,  my  blushing  love,  and  gently  lifting  her  in  my 
arms  carried  her  to  it  and  enthroned  her  upon  that 
fragrant  couch,  as  the  beautiful  queen  of  my  heart; 

the  mistress  of  my  life,  and  the  bride  of  my  soul. 

* # * * 

Ah,  one  moment  of  that  hour  of  perfect  bliss  would 
fee  cheaply  earned  by  a lifetime  of  slavish  toil.  It  paid 
me  for  all  I had  suffered  and  discounted  all  that  was 
to  come.  Ah,  those  golden- winged,  honey-tipped  hours, 
how  swiftly  they  flitted  by ! Ah, 

“Who  with  clear  account  e’er  marks 
The  ebbing  of  his  glass, 

When  all  its  sands  are  diamond  sparks 
That  dazzle  as  they  pass?” 

And  ere  we  had  hardly  dreamed  of  a second’s  lapse, 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE.  143 

the  four  laughing  hours  of  that  sweet  spring  afternoon 
had  roguishly  stolen  away,  leaving  the  ripples  of  sun- 
set on  the  bank  above  to  tell  us  that  they  were  gone. 

With  one  more  lingering  kiss  upon  her  swreet,  sweet 
Kps  and  glorious  eyes,  I tore  myself  away.  And  then 
feeling  that  her  precious  feet  were  too  dainty  to  touch 
even  that  crystal  sand,  I gathered  her  in  my  arms 
and  bore  her  to  her  mare,  and  mounting  my  own  steed 
we  dashed  away. 

The  gallop  back  home  was  in  silence,  but  not  with 
flutering  fears  and  doubts  and  shy  reserve,  but  with  a 
bliss  too  sweet  for  speech,  each  feeling  its  delicious  unc- 
tion, but  too  well  assured  of  each  other’s  sympathy  to 
question.  Twilight  had  fallen  when  we  reached  the 
gate  at  home  and  the  soft  young  moon  lighted  the  vista 
in  front  of  the  mansion,  but  not  so  brightly  that  I 
needed  fear  the  risk  of  holding  her  on  my  breast  a 
moment,  giving  her  another  kiss  as  I lifted  her  from 
her  saddle. 

“Oh,  your  ride  must  have  been  very  pleasant  t© 
have  kept  you  so  long,”  smilingly  said  the  mistress, 
meeting  her  at  the  door. 

“The  pleasantest  in  my  life,”  she  answered  gaily. 

“Indeed,  I am  glad  to  know  it.  How  far  did  you 
go?” 

“Oh,  not  so  far — I only  loitered.  I rode  to  the  Ball 
Cave,  and  it  was  so  pretty  and  cool  and  tempting,  that 
I had  Paul  to  gather  honeysuckles  and  wild  roses  and 
make  me  a divan,  where  I played  Queen  of  the  Naiads, 
dallying  with  its  royal  splendors  until  Paul  perforce 
had  to  make  me  come  away.  I seemed  almost  in  Fairy- 
land, and  could  have  stayed  there  all  night,  ’ ’ she  play- 
fully chattered,  I almost  dreading  that  a slip  of  the 
tongue  might  betray  her. 

But  the  mistress  was  stolidly  blind  and  only  an- 
swered with  an  assuring  smile,  ‘ ‘ Oh,  that  was  pleasant, 
and  I am  glad  you  have  found  it.  Only,  now,  sweet, 
run  up  and  hurry  for  supper.  It  has  been  ready  eves 

so  long.” 


144 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


Her  music  after  supper  was  an  epithalamium  of  joy, 
with  the  grand  wedding  march  as  an  overture. 

I stood  behind  her  as  she  played.  There  must  be  no 
more  standing  out  in  the  dark  like  a thief  for  me. 

“You  must  come  in  and  stand  by  my  side,  Paul,” 
she  said  as  we  met  in  the  hall. 

“But  it  will  appear  unseemly.  I must  not  forget 
my  place,”  I protested. 

“And  your  place  is  by  my  side,  Paul.  When  it  be- 
comes so  that  you  are  not  by  to  hear,  I shall  never- 
more sing,”  she  answered. 

“At  least,  I must  ask  the  mistress?” 

'‘The  mistress?  I — I am  your  mistress,”  she  inter- 
cepted with  a little  of  the  old  imperious  scorn  of  op- 
position. 

“Ah,  yes,  of  my  heart  and  of  my  soul,  but  not  of 
ay  service.  Oh,  darling,  ’ ’ I whispered,  ‘ ‘ for  your  own 
Sweet  sake  I must  the  more  closely  observe  the  pro- 
prieties and  duties  of  my  station.  Please,  let  me  ask 
her?” 

“No,”  with  almost  obstinate  resolution,  “I  will  tell 
lev  that  I wish  you  to  sing  and  to  arrange  my  musie 
fftr  me,  but  you  shall  not  be  driven  out  from  my  pres- 
ence in  the  dark  like  a negro.  Ah,  here  comes  mamma, 
now,”  adding,  as  my  mistress  approached,  “Mamma, 
1 want  Paul  to  help  me  with  my  music.  I find  him  so 
ready  with  my  portfolio,  and  he  knows  so  well  how 
best  to  arrange  the  rack  and  my  seat.  ’ ’ 

“Well,  why  don’t  you  make  him  do  it.  The  lazy 
rascal  has  nothing  else  to  do  but  wait  upon  you.  Make 
him  do  anything  you  like.  Paul,  I thought  I told  you 
before  that  you  were  to  do  anything  she  wanted,  and 
not  wait  to  be  asked.  Now,  go  in  and  attend  her,  and 
never  let  her  have  to  come  to  me  again  to  have  me 
make  you  do  anything,”  said  the  mistress. 

I was  too  glad  of  the  happy  privilege  to  demur,  but 
ia.  accepting  it  I resolved  to  be  more  circumspect  than 
ever  in  my  outward  deportment,  and  not  to  show  by 
any  presumption  of  favor  that  I was  anything  else  t# 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


145 


My  young  mistress  than  a stotish  slave.  My  greatest 
lear  was  that  she,  the  queenly,  gentle  woman,  in  the 
Mpulsive  warmth  of  her  affection,  would  throw  aside 
all  restraint  and  clinging  to  the  man  she  loved,  open- 
ly defy  the  world.  I know,  now,  that  it  was  fear  for 
Me,  and  not  for  any  consideration  of  her  ownself  that 
restrained  her  from  so  doing.  She  knew  that  it  would 
be  certain  death  to  me,  and  in  the  horror  of  that  dread 
*be  thought  not  of  the  shame  that  would  be  hers. 

I was  busied  all  the  forenoon  of  the  day  following 
m overhauling  my  master ’s  hunting  accoutrements,  oil- 
ieg  his  fowling-pieces  and  his  rifles,  and  arranging  his 
fishing  tackle,  for  his  annual  sporting  excursion  to  the 
Muscadine  plantation. 

He  would  start  early  after  dinner  and  would  be  gone 
a week  or  more,  according  to  the  success  of  the  sport. 
I was  to  go  with  him,  but  a suspicious  twitch  in  my 
Mistress’  knee-joint  suggested  a possible  attack  of  neu- 
ralgia and  the  program  was  changed. 

“I  am  sorry,  dear,”  she  said  at  the  last  moment, 
“but  I can’t  spare  Paul.  I feel  another  spell  coming 
on  and  I shall  need  him  to  rub  me.” 

“Hang  it  all,  Pauline,  that’s  too  bad.  I wish  some 
eute  Yankee  would  invent  a rubbing  machine.  I’d  get 
you  one  if  it  cost  a thousand  dollars — a double  patent, 
back-acting,  spontaneous  od-electro  rubbing  machine,” 
petulantly  grumbled  the  master. 

“I  wouldn’t  have  it  if  you  did.  I’d  rather  have 
Paul  than  all  the  machines  that  ever  could  be 
thought  of. 

“Oh,  well,  then,  you  can  have  Paul.  Mount  him  on 
wheels  and  put  a handle  to  him  and  go  to  rubbing,  if 
you  like,  and  I can  take  Louis.  Joe,  tell  Louis  to 
come.” 

And  so  I was  left  behind,  inwardly  blessing  the 
mistress  for  her  incipient  attack  of  rheumatism.  But 
the  blessing  was  not  without  its  qualifying  drawback, 
as  no  blessing  is,  for,  while  it  interfered  with  what 
would  have  been  a dreary  banishment  from  my  love. 


146  THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 

it  also  interrupted  the  delightful  program  we  had  each 
for  ourselves  arranged  for  the  afternoon’s  ride. 

“I  fear,  darling,  you  will  have  to  do  without  your 
ride  today,”  the  mistress  said,  as  already  dressed  the 
young  lady  came  down  with  a little  flutter  of  glad- 
ness to  tell  me  to  order  the  horses.  “I  must  have 
Paul  myself  this  evening.  I feel  them  creeping  on, 
now.” 

“But,  mamma — ” my  charmer  commenced,  with  an 
unmistakable  pique  in  her  voice,  when  a warning  ap- 
peal from  my  eyes  restrained  her. 

“No  buts  about  it.  I must  have  him  to  rub  my 
knees.  You  can  swing  and  have  a romp  with  Bruno 
on  the  lawn,  which  is  qpite  as  healthful  as  riding ; but 
you  must  lend  me  Paul  today.  Or,  if  you  must  ride, 
let  Joe  attend  you.” 

Again  I nodded  an  appealing  hint  to  acquiesce,  and 
accepting  the  disappointment  with  a charming  little 
pout,  she  said: 

“Joe,  indeed!  Joe  could  no  more  ride  Selim  than 
he  could  fly  to  the  top  of  the  house.  But  never  mind, 
I don’t  care  so  much  about  the  ride.  I can  go  back 
and  finish  my  nap,  and  when  you  get  done  with  Paul, 
he  can  swing  me,”  and  with  a little  flush  of  rebellion 
on  her  cheeks,  she  turned  away,  halting  at  the  door  to 
add  by  way  of  retaliation,  “Only,  mamma,  I do  think 
it  is  all  stuff  about  this  new-fangled  idea  of  the  odi« 
force  that  Aunt  Marie  is  so  crazy  about.  It  is  only 
one  of  her  hobbies.  You  know  she  is  full  of  them. 
It’s  the  rubbing  that  does  the  good,  and  why  can’t  you 
let  Winnie  rub  you?” 

“Winnie,  fiddlesticks!  I’d  as  soon  have  a frog  crawl- 
ing up  and  down  my  legs  as  to  have  Winnie  piddling 
at  them.  No,  it’s  the  young,  soft,  lusky  strength  of 
Paul’s  warm  hand  that  makes  the  tickle.  So  here, 
Paul,  get  on  your  knees  and  go  to  work,”  answered 
the  mistress,  putting  her  feet  upon  the  ottoman,  and 
lifting  her  petticoats. 

“I  do  wish  mamma  would  not  do  that,”  said  the 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


147 


young  lady  after  I had  exorcised  the  demon  of  rheu- 
matism. from  the  mistress’  knees,  and  had  been  dis- 
missed to  go  out  and  swing  her  daughter. 

“Do  what,  Miss  Virginia?”  I asked. 

“Let  you  rub  her  so.  It  is  hardly  decent!” 

“But,  darling,  if  it  relieves  her  pain,  I am  glad  to 
do  it.  I do  not  mind  it,  and  God  knows,  my  sweet,  it 
has  not  the  slightest  effect  on  me.  The  good  mother 
of  my  darling  is  sacred  to  me.” 

“Yes,  oh,  yes — I know.  It  is  not  that,  Paul.  There 
are  but  few  men  like  you,  Paul,  my  own,  dear  Paul.” 

After  supper  and  the  music  was  ended,  and  the 
mistress  was  preparing  to  retire,  her  daughter  called 
her. 

‘ ‘ Mamma,  ’ ’ she  cried,  ‘ ‘ I wish  to  make  some  different 
arrangements  about  Sally’s  sleeping.  She — she  snores 
so  loud  and  incessantly  that  I can’t  sleep.  She  must 
be  moved.” 

“Yes,  I hear  her  snoring  sometimes  clear  down  here, 
and  only  last  night  it  waked  your  papa,  and  he  gave  me 
a dig,  thinking  it  was  I.  I told  him  then  it  was  Sally, 
but  he  wouldn’t  believe  me.  But  tell  me,  Virginia,  let 
me  ask  you— isn’t  there  something  the  matter  with  the 
hussy,  anyhow?” 

The  young  lady  flushed  rosy,  as  she  cast  a shy  glance 
at  me,  and  with  a lowering  of  her  voice,  she  answered : 

“I  am  afraid  so,  mamma.” 

“Humph!  I thought  as  much.  I have  been  notic- 
ing her  for  sometime  and  was  sure  that  it  was  so,” 
and  then  turning  a quizzical,  half-frowning  glance  on 
me,  she  cried,  “And  you,  Mr.  Paul,  we  have  caught  you, 
have  we?  Ah,  ha,  my  buck,  and  it  was  for  this,  was 
it,  that  you  wanted  to  go  back  to  the  fields?  And 
aren’t  you  ashamed  of  yourself  for  trying  to  get  away 
as  you  did  after  putting  the  girl  in  such  a fix?” 

I was  hesitating  for  a reply  when  the  young  mistress, 
with  a pretty  little  scorn,  broke  in: 

“No,  indeed,  mamma,  it  was  not  Paul.  He,  I am 
sure,  is  above  such  a disgusting  liasion  as  that.”  » 


148 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


“Why,  child!  you  know  nothing  about  such  things. 
Paul  is  not  a steer,  if  he  is  a negro,  and  Sally  is  a 
bouncing,  fine  looking  wench — with  just  enough  negro 
in  her  to  make  her  likerish.  It  was  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world  that  they  should  get  too  thick.  Only, 
Paul,  you  should  not  have  tried  to  sneak  out  of  it,  as 
you  did.  You  should  have  owned  up  like  a man,  and 
we  would  have  called  you  married  and  let  you  go  on 
with  some  sort  of  respect  for  the  household.” 

“But  I tell  you,  mamma,  it  was  not  Paul,”  with  an 
indignant  flash  of  the  eye. 

“And  pray,  whose  is  it? — since  you  seem  to  know 
so  much  about  the  matter,”  a little  sharply. 

“It  comes  somewhat  nearer  home  than  Paul,”  cut- 
tingly replied  the  daughter. 

“Explain  yourself,  miss.” 

“I  am  sorry  you  compel  me,  but  since  you  falsely 
accuse  Paul,  I will  tell  you.” 

“Tell  me  then.” 

“It  is  brother  Victor.” 

“Victor!  How  do  you  know?” 

* ‘ Sally,  herself,  confessed  it  to  me ; and  Cousin  Isaura 
saw  them.  But,  mamma,  I do  hope  you  will  not  be 
too  hard  upon  the  poor  girl.  You — you  don’t  know 
what  a terrible  thing  it  is  to  be  tempted.” 

“Hard!  No,  of  course  not.  It  would  be  very  fool- 
ish to  be  angry,  now,  or  to  blame  the  girl.  But  Vic- 
tor, ah,  poor  boy;  maybe  he,  too,  couldn’t  help  it.  He 
is  such  a spirited,  high-strung  young  fellow,  and  he 
gets  it  from  his  father.  He  is  a full-blooded  Choteaux, 
and  they  are  all  a strong  manly  race,  full  of  fire  and 
animal  vigor.  He  gets  it  from  his  father  and  from  me, 
for  I,  too,  am  a Choteaux.  Ah,  I am  not  surprised  at 
this — although  perhaps,  I ought  to  have  kept  them 
apart.  But  I don’t  know  as  it  matters  so  much.  Young 
men  have  to  sow  their  wild  oats,  anyhow,  and  it  may 
be  as  well  for  them  to  sow  them  at  home  where  they 
•an  be  gathered,  as  to  scatter  them  around  here  and 
there,  and  the  Lord  knows  where.  I will  be  glad, 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLATE. 


14# 


though,  when  he  gets  through  and  settles  down  with 
Isuara.  She  is  half  Choteaux,  too,  and  will  give  hint 
enough  to  do  to  cultivate  the  home  garden.  In  the 
meantime,  darling,  we  must  take  care  of  Sally.  You 
can  still  keep  her  when  you  marry,  and  you  will  not 
he  the  first  mistress  who  has  a niece  or  nephew  in  the 
kitchen.  ’ ’ 

“Yes,  I know,  and  that  will  all  be  well.  But  now, 
mamma,  I wish  you  to  put  Sally  in  another  room  to 
sleep.” 

“Yes,  of  course,  and  you  must  have  another  girl; 
I would  let  you  have  Win,  only  she  is  not — ” 

“Oh,  no,”  quickly  interrupting.  “Oh,  no,  I do  not 
need  Winnie.  I do  not  need  any  one  else  but  Sally, 
at  least,  for  a while  yet.  She  can  still  wait  upon  me, 
hut  she  can  sleep  in  a room  by  herself — in  the  room 
this  side  of  mine,  or  in  the  one  across  the  hall.  I will 
not  be  afraid.  She  will  be  near  enough  for  me  to  call, 
should  I need  her,  and  still  far  enough  away  not  to  dis- 
turb me.” 

“Oh,  yes;  to  be  sure.  Have  her  moved,  and  as  for 
being  afraid,  you  have  Paul  near  by  and  you  can  call 
him.  There  is  no  danger  with  Paul  in  the  house.  So, 
go  now,  I am  sleepy.  Make  Paul  move  her  bed,  and  see 
after  everything.  Paul,  do  you  hear?  Attend  to  it 
now.  Good  night,  darling.” 

“Thank  you,  mamma;  good  night.  Come  on  Paul.” 

And,  a willing  slave,  I followed  the  no  longer  blush- 
ing, shrinking  maiden,  but  the  queenly,  imperious 
woman  up  to  her  chamber  to  do  her  bidding  without 
question  or  even  suggestion. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

DISQUIETING  FEARS. 

“Sally,”  she  said,  arousing  the  sleepy  girl  from  her 
nod,  “Sally,  you  must  not  think  that  I am  angry  with 
you,  for  I am  not,  but  I am  going  to  have  your  bed 
moved  to  another  room.  You  snore  so  long  and  loud 
that  I cannot  sleep.” 

“Law,  Miss  Jinny,  yo’  knows  I doan  snoah.” 

“Yes,  but  you  do.  But  you  can’t  help  it  in  your 
sleep,  so  I shall  move  you.  Here,  undress  me  while 
Paul  moves  your  things.  You  shall  have  a whole  room 
to  yourself.  Paul,  put  them  in  the  second  room  up 
the  hall,”  she  explained,  as  I commenced  at  once  the 
ready  work  of  eviction. 

By  the  time  I had  finished  the  work  of  removing, 
knocking  down  and  setting  up  the  trundle  bedstead 
and  lifting  out  her  trunk,  Sally  had  finished  her  task 
®f  disrobing  her  young  mistress  and  was  ready  to  be 
dismissed. 

“Now,  Sally,  you  may  go.  Only  you  must  wake 
when  I call  you,  and  never  do  you  come  to  interrupt 
me  until  I call  you.  Do  you  undertsand?” 

“Yes’m,  zif  Paul ’ll  only  wake  me  when  yo’  wants 
me.  I kin  neber  wake  myse’f.” 

“Yes,  Paul  will  wake  you.  You  can  go.  And  now, 
Paul,”  turning  to  me  as  her  maid  withdrew,  “I  will 
tell  you.  When  I gave  myself  to  you  yesterday,  it  was 
for  all  time.  In  my  heart  I wedded  myself  to  you 
as  solemnly  and  completely  as  if  I had  had  a priest 
to  mumble  the  vows,  I inwardly  swore  myself.  My 
room,  now,  and  my  bed  are  yours,  as  everything  else 
I have  is  yours.  You  can  go,  now,  and  then  come  back 

150 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


1151 


to  me.  And  do  not  tarry,  darling,  for  I am  longing  for 
a kiss.” 

I hurried  away  to  make  my  customary  survey  of 
the  premises,  and  then  came  back,  only  pausing  a 
Moment  to  listen  to  the  stentorian  breathing  of  Sally, 
before  I turned  and  boldly  went  into  my  own,  my  very 
own  room,  where  my  sweet  mistress,  my  bride,  was 
waiting  to  receive  me. 

It  is  neither  proper  nor  necessary  that  I should  re- 
late in  detail  the  events  which  transpired  during  those 
bMssful  days  which  followed — those  happy,  happy  days 
of  golden  sunshine  and  ambrosial  shadows.  They  were 
perilous  days  also.  I held  my  life  not  merely  in  my 
open  hand,  but  hung  it  lightly  on  my  sleeve,  where  the 
least  of  the  thousand  chances  which  daily  surrounded 
me,  would  have  laid  bare  our  secret  and  sent  me  dumb 
to  the  stake.  Nor  was  I blind  to  the  perils  which  be- 
set us.  I knew  that  it  was  over  a mine  of  powder  that 
I was  sleeping,  with  a burning  brand  in  my  hand,  but 
then  the  couch  was  a bed  of  roses,  and  I could  smile  at 
the  danger.  But  though  I smiled,  I did  not  brazenly 
defy  it.  I was  scrupulously  watchful  of  myself  and  of 
her,  who  was  risking  her  very  soul  for  me — but  it  was 
not  with  a coward’s  fear.  I felt  that  the  most  trifling 
favor  which  my  beautiful  mistress  might  deign  to  give 
me,  was  worth  a lifetime  of  jealous  guarding  from  the 
profane  knowledge  of  others. 

I have  often  since  analyzed  life,  the  matter  of  living 
and  of  loving,  and  I am  persuaded,  not  only  by  my 
own  experience,  but  by  a close  observation  of  the  ex- 
periences of  others,  that  all  of  life  worth  living,  all  of 
it»  joys  worth  having,  are  those  which  we  live  in  the 
presence  of  or  sip  from  the  lips  of  the  one  woman 
dearest  of  all  in  the  world.  It  matters  not  whether 
that  time  be  long  or  short — measured  even  by  hours 
or  by  years — in  its  span  are  rounded  up  the  essence 
of  life  and  the  whole  glory  of  mortal  being. 

Ah,  those  days  that  followed ! Those  few  short  sum- 


152 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


mer  months  of  unfettered  love  were,  the  crown  and  per- 
fection of  my  life.  Could  we  have  both  lived  centuries 
together,  gathering  roses  each  day,  we  could  not  have 
tasted  more  fully  the  uttermost  essence  of  human  ex- 
istence. 

It  mattered  not  to  us  then  what  the  world  might 
think,  what  judgment  the  social  Pharasee  migh  see  fit 
to  pass  upon  the  relations  sustained  under  such  covert 
conditions — in  our  heart  of  hearts  we  both  felt  we  were 
one  in  the  sight  of  heaven — that,  however,  wanting 
our  union  was  of  priestly  sanctification,  of  ritual  ob- 
servance, or  of  legal  recognition,  it  was  hallowed  by 
that  divinest  of  laws — nature’s  affinity — that  each  was 
necessary  to  the  other’s  happiness,  and  that  the  con- 
cealment of  that  love  was  the  result  solely  of  the  in- 
exorable laws  imposed  by  man  himself.  How  often, 
oh!  how  often,  during  that  union,  did  she,  that  gon- 
tlest  and  sweetest  of  women,  hallow  that  love  with  tears 
— no  of  shame  nor  of  remorse— but  of  fear  for  its  sud- 
den termination.  No  husband  could  have  felt  a pro- 
founder  love  or  more  reverent  regard  for  his  spouse 
nor  have  held  more  sacred  the  conjugal  relations,  than 
did  I during  the  continuance  of  that  blissful  epoch — 
the  crowning  glory  of  my  manhood. 

I know  there  are  many  who  will  consider  it  an  im- 
piety, a sacrilege,  to  attempt  to  hallow  that  union  with 
the  sacred  attributes  of  wedlock — and  yet  in  my  inner- 
most soul  I knew  that  a thousand  benedictions  of  the 
priest  could  not  have  increased  the  devotion  and  rever- 
ence which  I felt  for  her,  nor  ten  thousand  certificates 
of  the  court  could  have  made  more  constant  or  mere 
complete  the  womanly  love  that  she  gave  me  in  re- 
turn. 

There  was  never  a night  that  I did  not  go  to  sleep 
with  a prayer  on  my  lips  to  heaven  to  bless  and  to 
guard  her.  There  was  never  a waking  hour  that  I 
did  not  invoke  the  grace  of  heaven  upon  her  life. 

But  it  was  not  until  then  that  I felt  the  utter  im- 
potence of  my  manhood — my  slavish  degradation,  the 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


196 


curse  of  my  skin — which,  giant  though  I were,  still 
Made  me  the  veriest  pigmy,  and  which  though  I wert 
a thousand  times  a man,  imbued  with  god-like  powers 
and  possessing  all  the  attributes  of  the  very  flower 
and  essence  of  manhood,  yet  divested  me  of  the  small- 
est title  of  responsibility  before  the  eyes  of  the  law  and 
assigned  me  a place  in  the  social  scale,  the  very  mock- 
ery of  which  made  manhood  a curse  and  intelligence 
a crime. 

Is  it  any  wonder  then  that  in  a spirit  of  blind  and 
intuitive  seeking  after  justice  I should  have  laid  the 
very  flower  of  womanhood  under  contribution — that  I 
should  have  instinctively  sought  to  draw  myself  up  to 
the  very  proudest  estate  to  which  god-like  man  can 
aspire — to  love  and  be  loved — to  imbibe  the  very  am- 
brosia of  existence  from  the  lips  of  such  a woman  as 

Virginia  Choteaux. 

* # * * 

But  every  summer  has  its  clouds  and  ours  came  soon 
enough.  One  morning  after  the  spring  days  had  im- 
perceptibly glided"~by  and  midsummer  was  upon  us,  I 
went  into  her  room  and  found  her  standing  by  the 
window  crying. 

Distressed  at  the  least  shadow  of  trouble  upon  that 
fair  brow,  and  anxious  to  soothe  it  away,  I stepped 
quickly  to  her  side  and  taking  her  cheeks  between  my 
hands  I turned  up  the  sweet  lips  and  kissing  them, 
asked : 

“What  is  it,  darling?” 

“Oh,  Paul,”  she  answered,  laying  her  face  against 
my  bosom  and  bursting  into  sobs,  “oh,  Paul,  Paul! 
I fear  it  is  something  terrible.” 

My  heart,  which  had  misgiven  me  at  first,  gave  a 
groan  of  agony  as  I divined  her  appalling  meaning. 

“No,  no!”  I involuntarily  protested,  “that  can- 
mot  be.” 

“Alas,  I fear  it  is;  the  secret  of  our  love  will  have 
to  be  told.  And,  oh,  my  poor  darling,  they  will  mur- 
der you,”  she  cried,  raising  up  and  throwing  her  shel- 


154 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


tering  arms  around  my  neck  as  if  to  shield  me  from  the 
danger. 

I have  thought  often,  in  truth  I am  always  thinking, 
of  that  yearning,  pitying  cry— that  unconscious  out- 
reaching  of  saving  arms,  and  of  the  sublime  affection 
that  moved  her  soul,  as  in  that  supreme  moment  of  fear 
for  the  exposure  of  her  own  sorrow  and  dread  and 
shame,  she  had  no  thought  of  her  own  self,  her  own 
wretched  plight,  but  only  of  me.  Ah,  think  of  it ! She, 
the  sweet  mistress  of  all  that  magnificent  home,  the 
petted  darling  of  that  loving  household,  young,  beau- 
tiful, grand,  standing  there  in  the  shadow  of  that,  the 
bitterest  peril  that  ever  appalled  the  heart  of  woman, 
unmindful  of  her  own  dishonor  and  shame  and  ruin, 
finding  in  her  great  love  only  thoughts  for  me,  the  man, 
the  poor  despised  negro  slave,  who  was  the  cause  of 
her  undoing.  Ah,  misery  and  shame  can  present  their 
examples  of  moral  heroism  as  weir  as  the  grandest  vir- 
tues. 

“Oh,  darling,  it  is  not  of  me  you  must  think,  but 
of  yourself.  You  need  not  fear  for  me,  I am  nothing; 
it  is  yourself — your  own  peril — we  must  consider.  Tell 
me,  are  you  quite  sure?” 

“Yes,  yes,  I am  almost  sure.  I have  never  been  de- 
layed before,  and  several  days  have  passed  now,  and 
yet  no  symptoms — and,  oh,  Paul,  I feel  something  is 
wrong,  and,  oh,  darling,  what  shall  I do?”  she  cried, 
breaking  down  again. 

“I — I must  think.  I am  glad  that  you  told  me,  but 
you  must  let  me  think ; ah,  fool,  madman,  wretch ! why 
did  I not  divine  your  fears  before?”  I cried  in  an 
agony  of  remorse  and  self-approach. 

“Ah!  but  we  must  think  now,”  she  said,  recover- 
ing her  self-possession  and  speaking  with  a calmness 
that  steadied  me,  “and  I have  been  thinking  and  if  it 
should  prove  as  I dread,  there  are  two  things,  Paul, 
we  can  do,  and  you  must  help  me  to  decide.” 

“But  darling,”  I interrupted,  as  much  to  reassure 
her  in  the  hour  of  appalling  fears,  '“you  may  be  har- 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


155 


rowing  your  soul  with  needless  apprehensions.  I ca m 
not  believe  it  is  what  you  imagine.  Perhaps  you  are 
after  all  only  suffering  from  the  effects  of  your  re- 
cent cold,  which,  in  your  otherwise  splendid  health, 
you  dismissed  as  of  little  consequence.  It  may  have 
been  much  more  deep-seated  than  you  imagined,  and  a 
strong  sudorific  during  the  night  may  completely  re- 
store you.  And  I am  sure,”  I added,  taking  heart  my- 
self at  what  was  mainly  intended  to  quiet  her  anxieties, 
“you  are  allowing  your  imagination  to  carry  you  away 
needlessly.  But  what  are  the  alternatives  you  pro- 
pose?” 

I had  a very  fair  knowledge  of  what  w^ould  have 
been  then  and  is  now  considered  honorable  practice 
in  just  such  a case  as  then  troubled  my  young  mistress, 
but  for  a few  moments,  having  allowed  her  own  grave 
apprehensions  to  take  possession  of  me,  my  rather 
empirical  knowledge  of  medicine  had  deserted  me,  but 
now,  having  regained  my  composure  I awaited  her  own 
suggestions  with  a remarkable  calmness. 

“It  was  what  you  suggest,  yourself,  Paul,  dear,” 
she  answered  calmly,  “get  me  something  to  restore  me 
to  my  former — health;  but  if  I thought — if  I knew — 
I were  really  enceinte,  I would  not  think  of  having  it 
done.  I think  it  is  so  wicked — almost  murder.” 

* ‘ But  you  cannot  regard  it  in  that  light,  my  darling,  ’ ’ 
I interrupted,  feeling  the  shudder  that  shook  her  as  I 
held  her  shelteringly  in  my  arms.  “No  physiological 
conditions  are  present  as  yet  which  could  possibly  ad- 
mit of  a shadow  of  justice  in  such  a charge.  Medical- 
jurisprudence  has  settled  the  legal  responsibility  in 
such  instances  as  this,  and  as  there  is  no  way  of  know- 
ing this  early  whether  your  fears  are  well  founded  or 
merely  the  result  of  a temporary  disorder,  you  must 
not,  you  shall  not  take  such  a view  of  the  subject,” 
I said,  endeavoring  to  mould  her  judgment  to  my  way 
of  reasoning,  which  was  the  almost  invariable  result 
of  our  argumental  encounters.  “But  what  is  your 
suggestion?” 


156 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAYB. 


“The  other  is  this,  Paul,  and  for  your  sake  I am 
sure  it  is  the  best  for  us  to  do.  It  is  to  do  nothing 
now,  but  await  natural  developments.  Should  my 
fears  prove  well  founded,  we  can  go  on  here  so  long 
as  I can  without  discovery — without  showing— and 
then  to  ask  mamma  to  let  me  go  away — to  let  me  visit 
some  of  my  old  schoolmates  in  Virginia  or  Maryland, 
and  to  let  you  go  with  me,  and  then  when  we  get  away 
there,  to  keep  on  away  to  Canada  or  to  the  end  of  the 
earth,  where  our  babe  can  be  born,  and  we  may  live 
together  always  without  the  constant  dread  of  discoY- 
ery  always  hanging  over  our  heads.” 

The  scheme  was  a feasible  one,  and  could  have  been 
carried  into  execution,  and  for  a moment  its  happy 
prospects  actually  dazzled  me.  But  it  was  only  for  a 
moment,  when  came  the  realization  of  the  sacrifice 
she  was  offering  to  make  for  me,  of  all  it  would  cost 
her  to  make  it,  of  the  beautiful  home,  the  wealth  and 
care  and  luxury,  the  loving  mother  and  almost  idoliz- 
ing father,  she  would  have  to  abandon  and  forsake  for- 
ever, and  then  of  the  poverty  and  perhaps,  misery  that 
would  follow,  and  I could  not  permit  even  thoughts  of 
the  sacrifice. 

“And  you  would  do  all  this  for  me,  darling?”  I 
asked. 

“Oh,  yes,  so  gladly.  And  then  we  could  marry  by 
law,  and  I could  stand  before  all  the  world  and  ac- 
knowledge you  as  my  husband — my  own  good,  noble, 
brave-hearted  husband,  and  no  one  could  ever  take 
you  away  and  sell  you  from  me.  Not,  Paul,  that  I 
care  so  much  for  the  world,  or  for  the  law,  I could 
never  hold  you  dearer  than  I do  now  were  we  twenty 
times  married ; no  legal  ceremony  could  make  you  any 
more  my  husband  to  my  heart  than  you  are  now;  but 
then  we  would  have  no  one  to  fear — no  dread  of  dis- 
covery— no  dread  of  murder  and  death.  Oh,  my  dear 
Paul,  I am  sure  that  this  is  the  one  thing  for  us  to  do.” 

“Oh,  Virginia,”  I cried,  amazed  at  the  greatness  of 
her  love,  “this  is  so  good  in  you,  so  sweet  and  loving 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


15T 


a»<J  true,  and  it  would  be  such  a heaven  for  me,  but 
oh,  darling,  it  would  be  ruin  to  you,  disgrace  and  ruin 
to  your  family,  misery  to  your  good  mother  and  to 
yonr  father  who  love  you  so.  Oh,  no,  it  can  not,  it 
must  not  be.  Even  were  it  possible  for  us  to  do  this, 
to  get  away  safely,  I could  not  allow  you  to  sacrifice 
so  much  for  me.  No,  my  precious  one,  I would  be  ut- 
terly unworthy  of  all  this  love  of  yours  and  you  would 
learn  to  despise  me  for  my  meanness  were  I ingrate 
enough  to  allow  it.  It  would  be  madness  in  me  to  in- 
dulge such  a dream.  You  must  at  least  permit  me  to 
prescribe  you  a sudorific,  and  should  the  result  of  that 
prove  my  theory  to  be  incorrect,  there  is  yet  time  to 
consider  the  advisibility  of  your  suggestion.” 

“But,  won’t  there  be  trouble  in  getting  it,”  she 
asked,  “or  danger  of!  exciting  the  suspicions  of 
mother?” 

Briefly  I explained  to  her  the  very  simpleness  of  an 
ordinary  sudorific  treatment — so  simple,  that  she  al- 
most blushed  for  her  seeming  ignorance. 

“But,  now,  I have  a suggestion  to  make,  darling, 
which  I am  sure  we  had  better  avail  ourselves  of  while 
there  is  yet  time.  As  you  know,  my  own  knowledge 
of  matters  of  this  kind  is  what  I have  gathered  in  my 
readings  of  the  medical  works  in  your  father ’s  library. 
My  mother,  however,  is  skilled  in  a practical  way.  She 
has  a wide  knowledge  of  the  uses  of  nature’s  remedies. 
She  is  a skilled  accoucheuse,  and  among  the  negroes 
of  the  Cossetot  and  neighboring  plantations,  she  is  ac- 
counted a voodoo  queen.  Of  her  I may  be  able  to  ob- 
tain some  simple  remedy  which  may  restore  you,  should 
my  own  prescription  fail.  Were  I a white  man,  I could 
easily  consult  a physician,  but  as  it  is — not  without 
danger  of  arousing  suspicions.  Therefore,  darling,  I 
had  better  go  to  the  mistress  and  ask  for  a holiday,  and 
go  at  once  to  the  Cossetot.  In  the  meantime,  you 
must  follow  my  instructions  as  to  the  other.” 

My  earnestness  subdued  her — as  in  fact  all  through 
mar  lives  my  predominating  will  has  swayed  that 


158 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


gentle  soul,  and  without  further  protest,  only  with  a 
tearful  doubt,  she  yielded,  and  together  we  went  down 
to  beg  the  mistress  for  my  holiday. 

“Mamma,  Paul  has  begged  me  to  ask  you  for  a holi- 
day for  him.  He  wishes  to  go  to  Cossetot  to  see  his 
mother.” 

“Yes,  of  course  he  may  go.  It’s  the  first  holiday 
Paul  has  ever  asked  for.  Write  him  a pass,  darling, 
and  let  him  go.  You  may  ride  Selim,  Paul.” 

“Thank  you,  mamma;  and  I will  write  the  pass,” 
she  said,  seating  herself  at  her  mother’s  little  writing 
desk. 

I have  the  scrip  before  me  now,  a little  slip  of  paper, 
yellow  with  age,  written  in  her  own  fair  hand.  As  a 
memento  of  the  old  slavery  days,  I will  give  it: 

Rosemere,  July  19th,  1859. 

Paul  has  leave  to  pass  and  report  on  good  behavior 
to  and  from  the  Cossetot  plantation  until  Monday  morn- 
ing. 

GUSTAV  CHOTEAUX, 
per  daughter. 

It  is  the  only  serap  of  writing  that  she  ever  gars 
me,  and  I have  kept  it  miserly  all  these  years.  It  is 
valueless  to  anyone  else,  but  it  is  more  precious  to 
me  than  an  unlimited  check  on  the  Bank  of  England 
could  possibly  be. 

I followed  her  up  to  her  room  again,  and  after  giv- 
ing her  explicit  instructions,  I murmured  blessings 
upon  her  sweet  life,  and  kissing  her  good-bye,  hurried 
out  armed  with  my  “pass.”  Mounting  Selim  I was 
soon  far  on  my  way. 

It  would  have  been  unnatural  for  my  mother  not 
to  have  been  glad  to  see  me— such  a tall,  strong  fel- 
low, and  so  handsomely  dressed — but  she  was  not 
demonstrative,  and  welcomed  me  with  far  less  warmth 
than  Mammy  Dilsey  would  have  welcomed  the  young 
mistress  from  a week’s  journey. 

Adroitly  shielding  the  identity  of  my  mistress  from 
all  suspicion  I explained  the  object  of  my  mission. 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


169 


“Yes,  I’ve  been  listening  for  something  of  the  sort. 
You’ve  been  fooling  with  some  of  the  house  niggers 
and  want  to  hide  it.  Well,  I don’t  blame  you.  I don’t 
want  you  ever  in  your  life  to  daddy  a nigger  baby. 
If  you  can’t  get  a white  girl,  don’t  take  any.  And 
that  was  why,  Paul,  I didn’t  want  you  to  go  away 
at  first.  I was  working  for  you  and  the  Duboise  girl  to 
take  up  with  each  other,  and  you  could  have  done  it.  I 
had  worked  on  her  until  I had  got  her  ripe  for  pluck- 
ing, and  all  you  would  have  had  to  do  was  to  ask  her. 
You  could  have  lived  in  the  swamp  and  your  children 
would  at  least  have  been  free.  It  would  have  been 
much  better,  too,  for  the  girl — for  Cosette — than  to 
turn  out  as  she  did,  a common  trollop  for  old  Gans  and 
the  steamboat  men.  But  never  mind,  maybe  your  time 
may  come  yet;  but,  my  son,  if  it  never  does,  if  you 
never  get  a chance  with  a white  woman,  I had  rather 
for  my  race  to  die  out  than  for  you  to  'keep  it  up 
through  a nigger.  So,  now,  tell  me  all  about  this  girl.” 

Then  followed  a number  of  very  direct  interroga- 
tories and  their  equally  specific  replies,  in  which  little 
remained  to  be  explained. 

“Humph,”  said  my  mother,  with  an  expressive  shrug 
of  her  shoulders,  “Hain’t  enough  water  in  your  kettle 
to  make  such  a tempest  over.  It  might  only  be  a little 
cold — but  of  course  it  is  best  to  be  on  the  safe  side, 
and  if  you  act  at  once  and  your  wench  takes  a good 
sweat  when  you  get  back  and  a little  of  this  herb  ex- 
tract I will  make  for  you  to-night,  she  won’t  know 
but  that  she  has  forgot  that  four  times  seven  make 
twenty-eight.” 

Little  as  I appreciated  having  the  personality  of  my 
sweet  mistress  even  unconsciously  alluded  to  in  such 
a vulgar  manner,  yet  I felt  greatly  relieved  by  the 
assurances  of  my  mother,  who,  as  her  conversation 
will  show,  had  not  outgrown  any  of  her  early-con- 
ceived aversion  for  her  equally  black  yoke-mates. 

I was  up  bright  and  early  the  next  morning,  and 


160 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLATE. 


bidding  my  mother  a hasty,  yet  affectionate  good-bye, 
I mounted  Selim  and  rode  back  home. 

I shall  never  forget  the  look  of  happiness  which 
beamed  from  the  countenance  of  my  sweet  young 
mistress  as  I rode  under  the  “big  gate,’’  where  she 
had  been  loitering  for  some  time  in  her  desire  to  appre- 
hend me  upon  my  return.  In  the  look  of  melting  ten- 
derness she  gave  me  I read  more  clearly  than  words 
could  tell  of  the  needlessness  of  my  hasty  trip  to  th« 
Cossetot  plantation. 

“Ah,  you  are  always  right,  Paul,”  she  murmured, 
in  those  liquid  tones  which  have  always  been  the  sweet- 
est music  to  my  ears. 

I dismounted  at  once,  and  leading  Selim  as  near  to 
the  side  path  as  possible,  soon  had  an  oral  descrip- 
tion of  the  efficacy  of  my  own  prescription — given  in 
a hesitating  and  blushing  confusion,  which  lent  an 
additional  charm  to  her  high  spirits  and  almost  ex- 
uberant manifestation  of  feeling — born  of  fears  and 
black  shadows  so  recently  dispelled. 

Warned  by  the  seriousness  of  the  ordeal  through 
which  we  had  passed,  I determined  to  be  more  cau- 
tious in  the  future,  and  by  a prudent  observance  of 
certain  physiological  rules  we  were  enabled  to  avoid 
any  further  danger,  and  while  what  had  happened,  a 
mutual  peril  and  a mutual  anxiety,  drew  our  hearts 
the  more  closely  together,  it  at  the  same  time  served 
to  temper  the  lustihood  of  our  love  and  to  make  its 
more  prudent  indulgence  only  the  more  sweetly  ten- 
der. 

And  so  our  dark  summer  cloud  passed  by,  leaving 
the  soft,  pure,  blue  of  its  skies  more  bright  than  ever. 

'I* 


CHAPTER  XV. 


THE  BITTERNESS  OF  DEATH. 

The  young  master,  Victor,  had  finished  his  studies, 
and  after  a summer  tour  through  the  Northern  States, 
had  come  home  in  October  to  marry  his  pretty  cousin, 
Isaora  Noltrieb,  and  leaving  off  sowing  wild  oats,  to 
settle  down  into  staid  and  decorous  domestic  husband- 
ry. It  was  a brilliant  reception  the  mistress  gave  her 
son  and  his  lovely  bride.  All  the  beauty  and  fashion 
of  the  State  were  there,  but  among  them  all  there 
was  none  to  compare  in  radiant  beauty,  winsome  grace 
and  perfection  of  womanly  loveliness  with  her,  my 
own  heart’s  idol.  Like  a lovely  rose  in  a garden  of 
chrysanthemums  she  stood  among  them,  the  observed 
and  the  admired  of  all  who  saw  her,  and  eagerly 
sought  after.  Oh,  how  proudly  my  heart  swelled,  as 
standing  back  in  my  place  among  the  slaves,  I saw 
the  homage  men  paid  her,  as  with  the  grace  of  a queen 
she  accepted  their  devoirs.  How  my  fond  heart  gloated 
on  her  beauty  and  blessed  her  even  for  the  smiles  she 
gave  them.  What  a pride  of  possession  I felt  in  her 
love?  She,  the  beautiful,  the  queenly  woman  was  my 
own — all,  all  my  own — and  I could  almost  find  it  in 
my  heart  to  pity  those  poor  moths  who  fluttered  about 
her,  hut  who  could  not  taste  even  the  least  of  the 
sweets  it  was  mine  to  surfeit  upon.  Ah,  what  a proud 
height  it  was  upon  which  I stood  that  night  only  to 
be  plunged  the  next  day  into  an  absym  of  sorrow  cor- 
respondingly deep. 

It  was  after  all  the  guests  had  gone  and  the  house- 
hold had  been  put  to  right,  that  I was  in  my  mistress’ 
room  “conjuring,”  as  the  negroes  called  it,  her  joints, 

161 


162 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


when  in  response  to  her  summons,  her  daughter 
eame  in. 

“Ah,  Virginia,  I have  something  good  to  tell  you.” 

“Oh,  what  is  it?” 

“Can’t  you  guess?” 

“No,  mamma.” 

“Didn’t  Eugene  hint  it?” 

“Eugene?”  with  a perceptible,  half -seared  start. 

“Yes;  Eugene  Lavasser.  Now,  you  sly  puss,  you 
needn’t  deny  it.” 

“Deny  what,  mamma?” 

“That  you  know  we  have  arranged  for  your  mar- 
riage.” 

“My  marriage  !”■  repeated  with  a gasp,  while  my 
trembling  fingers  must  have  puzzled  the  mistress. 

“Mind,  Paul  how  you  pinch.  What’s  the.  matter 
with  the  boy?  There,  that  will  do  my  knee— -now  my 
ankle*-  and  don’t  be  so  awkward.  Yes,  your  marriage. 
Colonel  Lavasser  has  spoken  to  me  and  your  papa,  and 
it  is  all  arranged  and  very  handsomely,  too.  Eugene 
is  his  only  heir,  you  know,  and  he  is  immensely  rich. 
The  Colonel  is  to  settle  the  Mobile  plantation  on  him 
with  five  hundred  negroes,  and  your  father  is  to  settle 
the  Cossetot  plantation  with  all  its  negroes  upon  you. 
The  two 'places  join,  you  know,  and  you  two  will  be 
the  richest  couple  in  the  State.  But  why  do  you  stand 
staring  so  stupidly  for  ? Is  the  news  too  good  for  you 
to  believe?” 

“Oh,  no,  mamma,  not  to  good,  but  too  bad — too 
wretched  and  miserable  and  sad.  Oh,  mamma,  mam- 
ma! I cannot,  cannot  marry!  It  would  be  a sin!” 

“A  sin!  What  do  you  mean?” 

“I  mean  that — that — oh,  that  I do  not  love  Eugene 
Lavasser  and  I — I never  can  marry  him.  Oh,  mamma, 
please  do  not  ask  me!” 

“Yes,  darling;  but  you  must.  It  is  all  fixed,  now. 
Your  father  has  already  made  the  compact.  In  fact. 
Colonel  Lavasser  has  by  this  time  made  the  announce- 
ment to  his  friends  and  Eugene  himself  will  come,  up 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


1G8 


during  the  week  to  confirm  it  with  you.  So,  Virginia, 
you  must  reconcile  yourself  to  our  wishes.  Eugene 
is  a handsome  fellow,  and  a fine,  brave  gentleman,  and 
I am  sure  he  will  make  you  a good  husband.” 

‘ ‘ But  mamma,  I cannot ! ’ ’ breaking  down  utterly, 
and  bursting  into  sobs  and  tears. 

“Tut,  tut,  tut — such  stuff.  Why  child  that  is  all 
nonsense.  All  women  have  to  marry  and,  I am  sure, 
it  is  getting  time  for  you.  Or,  is  it  that  you  have  a 
little  love  affair  of  your  own,  and  don’t  like  our 
choice?” 

“Ah,  do  not  ask  me,  mamma.  It  is  enough  that 
I cannot  marry  Eugene.” 

• ‘ ‘ Phew ! what  a chit.  And  that  is  just  the  way  I 
felt  when  your  grandmother  first  told  me  I must  marry 
your  father.  I could  have  cried  my  eyes  out,  because 
I had  a silly  fancy  of  my  own.  But  your  grandmother 
had  the  good  sense  not  to  listen  to  me  and  by  taking 
the  matter  in  her  own  hands  and  making  me  marry 
Gustave,  saved  me  from  disgrace.” 

‘ ‘ Disgrace  ? ’ ’ 

“Yes,  and  ruin,  for  I would  have  run  away  with 
Jean  Morague,  a worthless  vagabond,  who  went  com- 
pletely to  the  dogs,  and  was  killed  in  a drunken  brawl 
in  a bawdy  house.  Ah,  yes,  my  child,  you  must  know 
that  parents  know  better  how  to  choose  for  their 
children  than  they  know  themselves.” 

‘ ‘ But  I do  not  love  him.  I despise  him.  ’ ’ 

“That’s  nothing.  I didn’t  love  your  father,  nor 
he  me,  for  that  matter,  for  he  was  in  a hopeless  and 
not  very  nice  entanglement  with  a married  woman,  and 
thought  that  the  sun,  moon  and  stars  rose,  revolved 
around  her,  and  set  in  her  eyes.  But  the  old  people 
eared  nothing  for  this,  and  they  made  us  marry,  any- 
how, and  a happy  marriage  it  turned  out  to  be;  for 
I hadn’t  got  well  into  it  before  I thought  it  the  sweet- 
est thing  in  the  world,  and  I wouldn’t  give  Gustave’s 
little  finger  for  a cow-pen  full  of  poor,  stupid  Jeans. 
So,  darling,  you  must  put  away  all  your  silly  notions 


164 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


and  submit  like  a dutiful  daughter.  You  must  know 
that  it  is  for  your  own  good.  You  cannot  always  go 
on  living  as  you  are.  Ouch!  Paul,  you  awkward  fel- 
low. There!”  giving  my  ear  a stinging  box  as  in  a 
shock  at  the  chance  words  she  spoke,  I gave  her  ankle 
an  awkward  twitch.  ‘‘Mind,  now,  how  you  hurt  me 
again.  Now,  you  may  go,  and  you,  too,  Virginia. 
Think  kindly  of  this  matter,  darling,  and  sleep  on  it 
and  dream  sweet  dreams  of  Eugene,  so  when  he  comes 
you  will  have  a mouthful  of  kisses  for  him.” 

‘‘But  I hope  he  will  never  come.  I shall  not  kiss 
him  if  he  does;  and  besides,  mamma,  I know  that  he 
doesn’t  love  me.” 

‘‘Ah,  well,  that  is  of  slight  consideration.  You  will 
soon  fetch  him  to  his  milk.” 

‘‘Oh,  mamma!  don’t — don’t!”  with  a gesture  of  dis- 
gust and  deprecation. 

‘‘Let  him  once  taste  what  a sweet  girl  you  are  and 
he  will  be  yours,  body  and  soul.  That’s  the  way  I 
conquered  Gustave,  after  I found  he  was  worth  hav- 
ing,” continued  the  mistress,  unmindful  of  the  appar- 
ent distress  of  her  daughter. 

‘‘But  Eugene  is  not  worth  having.  I shall  never 
let  him  touch  me,  or  try  to  win  his  love.  I shall  not 
ask  him  to  love  me  for — for  I — I will  speak  it  if  I 
die,  I do  love  another,”  she  -cried  in  her  desperate 
distress. 

‘‘Ah,  well,  I suspected  as  much,  but  that  makes  no 
dilference — except  it  makes  it  the  more  imperative 
that  you  should  be  married.  When  girls  get  to  hanker- 
ing after  lovers,  it  is  time  to  put  them  to  bed  with 
a husband.  We  have  chosen  Eugene  Lavasser  for  your 
husband,  and  you  should  know  me  well  enough  to 
know  that  when  I have  made  up  my  mind  to  a thing  it 
has  to  be  done.  So  go  now.  I am  tired.” 

A moment  later  we  were  in  our  room,  each  looking 
at  the  other  in  a dazed  and  hopeless  manner. 

‘ ‘ Oh  Paul,  dear  Paul ! What  shall  we  do  ? ” she  cried 
in  an  agony  of  despair,  throwing  herself  into  my  arms 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


165 


as  though  I could  protect  her  from  the  impending 
evil. 

I had,  after  the  first  sharp  pain  and  shock  had  al- 
lowed me  to  think,  pondered  over  the’  matter  as  seri- 
ously and  as  intelligently  as  the  bitterness  of  my  heart 
and  soul  would  permit,  and  bitter  as  my  conclusions 
were,  I could  not  hide  the  fact  from  myself— that  evem 
to  temporarily  stand  against  the  wishes  of  her  parents 
would  not  only  make  the  exposure  of  our  shame  likely, 
but  further  embitter  her  own  life,  when  forced  to  suc- 
cumb to  the  parental  authority,  which  I had  better  rea- 
sons than  she  herself  to  know  would  brook  no  such 
interference.  Therefore,  I answered  her  as  calmly  as 
I could. 

“ Dearest,  death  itself  might  rob  me  of  your  love 
and  sweetness  with  less  bitterness  for  me — for  then, 
at  least,  I would  know  that  you  had  been  all  mine — 
mine  all  alone.  But,  darling,  I cannot  hide  the  truth 
from  myself — I dare  not  hide  it  from  you.  There  is 
no  way  of  escaping  the  wishes  of  your  parents — not 
without  dragging  you  down  with  me  to  inevitable  ruin, 
misery  and  shame,  and  exposing  you,  darling,  to  the 
vilest  opprobrium  which  can  be  heaped  upon  the  fair 
name  of  woman.” 

‘ * Oh,  Paul,  ’ ’ interrupting  me  with  a cry  that  pierced 
me  to  the  heart,  “is  it  so,  is  it  so  that  you  wish  to 
give  me  up — that  you  are  tired  of  me  and  want  to — 
to  push  me  onto  another  ?” 

“No,  no  darling!  You  must  know  better  than  that. 
If  I did  not  love  you  as  I do,  dearer  than  my  own  life, 
than  my  own  soul,  my  own  happiness,  I would  take  you 
in  my  arms  and  walk  boldly  out  of  this  house,  defying 
all  the  powers  that  be  to  take  you  from  me.  But, 
darling,  I do  love  you  too  well,  to  thus  destroy  your 
life,  your  peace,  your  future  happiness.  No,  no,  sweet, 
sweet,”  kissing  her  soothingly,  “I  love  you,  I love  you 
far  too  well  for  that,  and  that  I do  love  you  compels 
me  to  give  you  up.  You  must  know,  as  your  good 
mother  so  prophetically,  if  not  meaningly  said,  we  ca* 


166 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


not  go  on  always  living  as  we  are  without  utterly 
destroying  you,  my  darling.  I would  be  a fiend  in- 
carnate to  dream  myself  of  such  a possibility.  Ah,  Vir- 
ginia, I have  dreaded  the  coming  of  the  stroke.  We 
have  seen  the  flash— we  dare  not  defy  the  bolt.  No, 
darling,  you  must  accede  to  the  wishes  of  your  par- 
ents.” 

“But  I shall  not!  I am  yours.  In  the  sight  of  God 
I am  your  wife.  All  that  a woman,  and  more  than 
a wife  can  give,  I have  given  to  you,  and  no  other 
man  has  a right  to  take  it  from  you.” 

“Yes  I know,  and  would  to  God  I could  enforce 
my  claim— even  at  the  point  of  a dagger.  It  is  a joy 
for  me  to  know  that  you  love  me,  but  we  can  not  re- 
sist the  inevitable,  and  besides,  darling,”  I cried,  fall- 
ing at  her  feet  and  crushing  her  garment  in  my  hands, 
as  the  bitterness  of  the  separation  appalled  me,  “you 
need  not  cast  me  off  entirely — you  will  let  me  be  near 
you- — to  serve  you  as  the  humblest  slave  in  your  house- 
hold— to  receive  a smile  or  a kindly  look.  God  knows 
I shall  not  seek  to  look  higher.  You  may  not  utterly 
overlook  me.  But  whatever  comes,  I shall  live  in  the 
sweet  knowledge  that  I once  possessed  your  love  in 
its  fullest  measure — and  that  will  make  those  after 
thoughts  less  bitter,  and  possibly  he  may  not  supplant 
me  in  your  heart,  and,  while  the  law  may  give  him 
the  right  to  your  person,  the  fragrance  of  your  love 
will  be  mine  and  will  cling  to  me  through  life.” 

“Oh,  Paul,  you  do  not  love  me  or  you  would  not 
talk  thus  of  my  unfaith  to  you,”  she  protested. 

“But  it  would  not  be  unfaith.  It  would  really  be 
duty.  We  cannot  live  thus  always.  I have  known  it 
and  I see  it  more  and  more  each  day  when  I know 
you  are  imperiling  your  sweet  name  for  me,  and  I — 
I am  hopelessly  dragging  you  down  to  a certain  de- 
struction— to  inevitable  ruin  and  shame.  I cannot  hide 
the  awful  truth  from  myself  and  I love  you  too  well 
to  carry  you  further,  and  may  God  give  me  strength  to 
protect  you  from  all  the  baser  instincts  of  that  love.” 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


167 


“You  mean  by  that,  that  you  are  tired  of  me,  and 
wish  to  put  me  off,”  she  said  with  forced  calmness. 
“Very  well,  be  it  so.  You  can  go  now — without  an- 
other word,  without  another  kiss,  go  back  to  your  owi 
room,  and  leave  me  the  woman  you  first  dishonored 
and  now  despise, ’ ’ and  in  a sudden  burst  of  passion  she 
pushed  me  away  from  her  with  her  hands,  and  in  the 
old  imperious  attitude  of  a mistress,  awaited  my  de- 
parture from  her  presence. 

I was  glad  for  her  own  sake  that  she  seemed  thus 
to  misunderstand  me.  It  was  so  much  easier  to  obey 
hor  anger  than  to  resist  her  tears. 

“Yes,  it  is  best  for  you  that  I go  now,”  and  turn- 
ing from  the  room  I went  back  to  my  almost  disused 
little  cuddy,  where  falling  on  my  hard  bed,  I buried 
my  face  in  the  pillow,  and  gave  up  to  the  lonely  heart- 
despair  I had  struggled  so  hard  to  resist  in  her  pres- 
ence. 

I had  lain  thus  hardly  an  hour  when  I was  aroused 
t>7  the  stealthy  opening  of  my  door  and  the  soft,  name- 
less telegraphy  of  a woman’s  rustling  night  apparel, 
and  turning,  I saw  in  the  shadowy  light  of  the  moon 
that  crept  through  my  blinds,  the  white-robed  figure  of 
my  own  mistress  groping  its  way  to  me. 

“Oh,  Paul,”  she  whispered,  in  a voice  still  tremu- 
lous with  sobs,  “I  have  come  to  you.  I cannot  live 
without  you.  I am  so  sorry  I drove  you  away  and 
have  come  to  beg  your  forgiveness  and  to  ask  you  to 
let  me  remain  with  you.” 

“Oh,  my  darling,  my  darling,”  I whispered,  spring- 
ing up  and  clasping  her  to  my  heart,  “this  is  more 
than  I deserve.  You  overwhelm  me  with  the  transcend- 
ent grace  of  your  love.” 

“Then  you  will  let  me  stay,”  she  sobbed," clinging 
to  me  with  appealing  strength,  “will  let  me  share  for 
one  night  your  own  cold  room  and  make  it  warm  for 
y©u.  Oh,  I am  so  glad,”  nestling  up  close  to  me,  “for 
it  will  show  you,  dear  Paul,  how  much  I love  you — 
and  how  soft  love  can  make  the  hardest  couch.” 


168 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE, 


“No,  my  sweet  mistress,  I could  not  permit  such  a 
condescension,  and  besides,  it  is  too  cold  and  too  hard 
for  you,  my  darling.  Oh,  no,  Virginia,  I can  crawl 
up  to  you,  to  your  higher  estate,  but  I can  not,  I must 
not  drag  you  down  to  mine.” 

“Then  take  me  back  to  my  own.  It  even  is  cold 
without  you.” 

Ah,  what  mortal  could  have  resisted  the  alluring 
sweetness  of  that  tender  and  gracious  appeal? 

I shuddered  then,  and  I have  shuddered  often  since 
for  the  dangers  of  that  ambrosial  night,  when,  as  if 
courting  exposure,  she  seemed  to  have  lost  all  sight  of 
prudence  or  propriety. 

“But,  darling,”  I protested,  “we  must  be  prudent; 
certain  exposure  will  be  sure  to  follow.” 

“Let  it  follow — let  it  be  exposure  and  disgrace.  I 
wish  it  would.  I wish  I could  tell  them  of  my  love— 
if  only  they  would  not  visit  their  vengeance  upon  you 
— tell  them  of  the  sweetness  of  its  taste.  Perhaps, 
then,  when  I am  dishonored,  they  would  not  try  to 
take  me  from  you  then,  and  with  even  this  milk-eyed 
Lavasser,  all  reeking  himself  with  pollution,  to  scorn 
me,  I could  still  be  yours.  On,  how  I would  bless  him 
for  his  scorn— for  Paul,  I had  rather  be  your — your — 
yes,  I will  speak  it  in  its  vilest  sense — I had  rather  be 

your  mistress  than  to  be  his  wife.” 

^ ^ 

But  daylight  brought  its  moments  of  rational  medi- 
tation, as  well  as  its  lethe  to  passion,  and  in  the  hours 
of  sad  but  calm  reflection  which  followed,  my  young 
mistress  foresaw  the  utter  fatuity  of  even  the  most 
stubborn  resistance  to  the  expressed  wishes  of  her  par- 
ents. She  saw  as  clearly  then  as  I had  seen  before 
that  resistance  would  only  augment  her  own  misery 
and  shame,  and  reluctantly,  though  she  did,  she  con- 
fided to  me  fully  her  resignation  to  what  under  the 
circumstances  we  both  regarded  as  inevitable. 

“Oh,  Paul,  I fear  that  I was  very  wicked  last  night 
—sinful  and  mean,  but  I was  so  desperate.  It  seemed 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


169 


so  horrible — the  idea  of  marrying  any  other  man  but 
you — of  marrying  such  a man  as  Eugene  Lavasser, 
while  loving  such  a man  as  you— you,  Paul.  But  I 
have  thought  it  all  over  all  morning,  and  for  your 
•wn  sake,  Paul,  as  well  as  mine,  and  because  you  ask 
it  of  me,  and  because  you  think  it  best,  I will  do  it. 
I know  now  that  you  do  love  me  truly — better  than 
I love  my  own  self— and  that  it  is  for  this  you  think 
it  best  that  I should  marry  that  man,  who  comes  be- 
tween us.  I can  trust  you,  Paul,  in  all  things,  and  I 
will  trust  you  in  this.  I will  marry  Eugene  Lavasser, 
but  it  will  only  be  with  my  lips,  my  heart  will  not  speak 
the  vow,  for  I shall  never  cease  to  love  you,  never, 
never.  I shall  hold  you  first  in  my  heart,  and  shall 
think  it  no  sin  to  have  you  near  me.  If  I sin  at  all  it 
will  be  against  you  in  marrying  him,  and  not  against 
Eugene  Lavasser  is  still  loving  you.  Now,  Paul,  can 
you  forgive  me  for  the  sin  against  you,  and  will  you 
promise  to  love  me  none  the  less  if  I marry  him?” 

1 1 Oh,  darling,  you  make  me  very  happy.  There  is 
nothing  that  can  ever  efface  your  image  from  my  heart, 
or  lessen  the  measure  of  my  love,  ” I said,  softly  kiss- 
ing her. 

The  next  day  young  Lavasser  came,  and  the  es- 
pousals were  ratified  by  the  ring  and  the  kiss,  the 
brilliancy  of  the  ring  compensating,  perhaps,  for  the 
coldness  of  the  kiss. 

And  so  they  were  marired,  in  all  the  splendor  of 
wealth  and  of  fashion,  and  no  fairer  bride  was  ever 
seen,  her  blushing  reserve  and  almost  sad  drawing 
back  being  accredited  to  a shy,  maidenly  modesty. 
And  I!  I looked  on  from  afar  off  with  a heart  as 
heavy  as  lead  and  almost  as  dead. 

I knew  it  was  best  for  us  both. that  we  did  not  meet 
or  try  to  speak,  and  so  all  the  evening  I kept  as  far 
away  as  my  duties  would  permit  me. 

At  the  usual  hour,  early  the  next  morning,  I went 
into  the  nuptial  room  to  build  the  fire.  "With  the 
nerve  of  a stoic,  I piled  on  the  wood  and  applied  the 


170 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


kindling  match  and  then  as  I arose  to  leave,  some 
blind  impulse  caused  me  to  look.  The  heavy  curtains 
were  drawn  back  and  there  on  that  couch,  which  I had 
learned  to  regard  as  my  own,  she  lay  with  her  head 
drawn  on  his  breast',  her  face  hiding  in  his  shirt  frill, 
while  he  softly  stroked  the  flossy  tangles  from  her 
hair.  I had  to  pause  a moment  when  she  shyly  raised 
her  face  to  look  at  me,  and  I saw  the  tears  brimming 
in  her  eyes,  and  then  I had  to  clinch  my  teeth  and 
steel  my  senses  to  keep  from  springing  upon  his  throat 
and  strangling  him  as  he  lay,  like  the  tiger  would 
destroy  the  ravisher  of  his  mate,  and  positively  blind 
for  the  moment,  I groped  my  way  to  the  door  and  stag- 
gered across  the  hall  to  lean  against  the  opposite  wall. 

That  moment,  I think,  was  the  bitterest  of  my  life, 
the  most  hellish.  Had  I remained  in  that  room  one 
second  longer,  or  cast  one  more  glance  in  those  sor- 
rowing eyes,  I should  hav«  torn  her  from  his  arms, 
and  with  a demon’s  strength  thrown  him  head  fore- 
most through  the  window. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

IS  A WOMAN’S  HEART  A SPONGE? 

It  was  more  than  two  months  before  I saw  the 
bridal  couple  again.  That  same  morning  after  early 
breakfast  and  before  I could  creep  from  the  hiding 
place  in  the  stable,  whither  I had  tottered  like  a 
wounded  stag  to  hide  his  hurt,  they  had  been  driven, 
a gay  party  to  the  landing  on  the  river  to  catch  the 
down  boat  for  their  bridal  tour,  down  to  the  city  and 
over  to  Havana,  and  it  was  not  until  after  the  Mardi 
Gras  revel  in  New  Orleans  that  they  returned.  I hard- 
ly know  how  I got  through  the  time.  It  seemed  an  in- 
terminable age  of  darkness,  and  with  a heavy,  unquiet 
heart  I groped  through  it,  performing  my  light  duties 
with  a mechanical  hand.  My  mistress  noticed  my  de- 
jection, and  with  a smile  she  said: 

14  Ah,  I see  Paul,  you  miss  your  young  mistress.  We 
all  miss  her.  Ah,  I didn’t  know  how  much  of  the  sun- 
shine she  would  carry  away,  or  I should  not  have  s© 
easily  given  her  up. 9 9 

But  at  last  the  long  night  of  winter  gloom  passed 
away  and  they  came  back  again  and  with  her  the  sun- 
shine, he  proud,  haughty,  peevish  and  puerile,  she  smil- 
ingly sweet  and  grandly  beautiful  as  ever. 

It  needed  not  an  eye  of  jealous  affection  to  see  at 
onee  that  there  was  but  little  love  between  them.  There 
were  no  characteristics  of  taste,  of  sentiment  or  of  feel- 
ing in  common  between  them.  He  was  cold,  selfish, 
petulent  and  thoroughly  little,  while  she  was  warm, 
generous,  passionate,  gentle  and  noble.  Theirs  had  been 
in  its  every  sense  a marriage  of  convenience,  and  it 
was  likely  to  hold  together  only  as  such.  It  united 

171 


172 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


in  one  magnificent  domain  the  broad,  fair  acres  of  the 
two  estates  which  lay  side  by  side  on  the  banks  of  the 
sluggish  Cossetot,  but  it  left  two  hearts  as  coldly  apart 
as  if  the  snows  of  the  Arctics  lay  banked  between 
them. 

I do  not  know  that  she  tried  to  win  his  love  or  even 
regard,  but  I am  sure  it  would  have  been  casting 
pearls  before  a swine  for  her  to  have  offered  even  the 
poorest  of  her  graces  to  him.  He  thought  more  of  his 
full-blooded,  thick-lipped  Amazon  negro  concubine  than 
he  did  of  his  wife,  and  more  of  his  horse  and  his  hounds 
than  he  did  of  his  concubine.  It  may  have  been  a grim 
irony  of  fate  which  brought  these  two  together.  What- 
ever it  was  I noticed  at  the  first  glance  the  incom- 
patibility of  feeling  between  them,  and  in  spite  of  my 
own  jealous  despair  my  heart  bled  with  pity  for  my 
sweet  mistress. 

It  was  in  the  forenoon  when  they  arrived,  and  the 
house  was  in  a flutter  of  rejoicing  until  dinner.  Then 
the  bright  out-door  air  suggested  a ride  to  the  young 
gentleman,  and  he  asked : 

“What  kind  of  a mount  can  you  give  a fellow?  I 
should  like  demnition  well  to  take  a gallop  this  after- 
noon. ” 

“Oh,  you  can  have  my  mare,  Dido.  She  is  a capital 
courser,  ” readily  offered  his  wife,  her  offer  evidently 
prompted  by  a desire  to  be  relieved  of  him. 

“But  I want  you  to  ride  with  me.” 

“ Oh ! Then  you  will  have  to  ride  Prince,  papa’s  horse. 
Papa  will  let  you,  I am  sure.” 

“Certainly,  dear;  or  let  him  try  Selim.  He  will  suit 
him  best,  that  is,  if  you  can  sit  him  ? ’ ’ 

“Sit  him,  how?” 

“Ride  him,  I mean,  he  is  a tartar.” 

4 ‘ Sit  him ! Humph,  I • can  ride  a streak  of  lightning. 
Tell  them  to  bring  him  out.  I can  ride  any  demnition 
horse  that  was  ever  foaled.  And  you,  ‘ Gin,  run  and  get 
ready!  I am  impatient  to  get  out  of  this  demnition 
sickly  air.  I never  could  see  what  folk  wanted  to  shut 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


173 


themselves  up  in  a house  for  when  the  air  is  so  bright 
out  of  doors.” 

The  master  ordered  me  to  get  out  the  horses,  and  I 
went  away  to  caparison  my  own  steed  for  another  to 
take  my  place  by  the  side  of  her  who  had  been  more 
than  life  to  me. 

As  queenly  as  ever,  as  much  like  a Juno,  she  came 
forth  and  not  waiting  for  the  offer  of  the  help  her 
husband  had  no  thought  of  offering,  she  called  to  me. 

“Here,  Paul,  you  must  lift  me.” 

As  steadily  as  I could  command  my  nerves,  but  with 
a choking  sensation  I can  never  forget,  I lifted  her  as 
of  old,  and  then  turned  to  surrender  Selim  to  the  new 
master. 

But  Selim  did  not  like  the  looks  or  else  the  smell  of 
the  new  master,  and  after  giving  a suspicious  whiff,  he 
extended  his  nostrils  with  a snort  and  gave  a disap- 
proving shake  of  the  head. 

“Whoa,  sir!  whoa,  you  fool!  You  don’t  know  who 
you  are  fooling  with.  Hold  him,  Buck,  until  I mount 
and  then  let  him  go,”  ordered  the  new  master,  reaching 
for  the  pommel. 

But  Selim  would  not  tolerate  the  familiar  nearness 
and  with  a vicious  drawing  up  of  the  near  hind  foot 
warned  him  to  keep  his  distance. 

“What,  you  threaten  to  kick?  You  demnition  brute, 
you!  There!”  lashing  him  across  the  flank  with  his 
whip. 

The  lash  enraged  the  animal  beyond  all  control  and 
rearing  with  a plunge  at  the  assailant  he  lifted  me  bod- 
ily from  the  ground  as  I held  him  firmly  by  the  bit. 
So  sudden  and  unexpected  was  the  plunge  that  it  would 
have  thrown  me  prone,  had  not  my  conger-like  activity 
kept  me  on  my  feet,  and  then  steadying  myself  against 
another  plunge,  I said: 

“You  had  better  not  try  to  mount.  You  only  enrage 
the  animal,  and  he  will  kill  you.  You  could  not  ride 
him,  if  you  were  to  mount.” 

“And  who  are  you,  you  demnition  nigger  you,  to  tell 


174 


THE  STOKY  OP  A SLAVE. 


me  what  to  do?  Hold  that  horse,  sir,  and  keep  your 
demnition  mouth  shut.  There,  you  brute  you!”  cried 
the  enraged  man,  again  lashing  the  horse  savagely. 

I was  for  an  instant — like  a flash  it  came  over  me — 
tempted  to  give  free  rein  to  Selim,  and  let-  him  strike 
his  tormentor  down  where  he  stood,  but  happily,  I re- 
sisted the  awful  impulse  and  held  on  the  more  firmly, 
when,  with  another  rear  and  wild  plunge,  the  enraged 
animal  struck  out  madly  with  his  fore  feet,  the  sharp 
iron  caulk  of  one  shoe  catching  my  sleeve  and  tearing- 
it  away  like  a gossamer  web,  cutting  a sharp  gash 
deep  into  my  flesh.  The  blow  slightly  numbed  my  arm, 
but  I still  held  on  and  giving  his  head  a sudden  twist 
I brought  the  furious  animal  to  his  knees. 

“Come,  Mr.  Lavasser,”  interposed  my  master,  “you 
must  ride  Prince.  I am  sorry  I suggested  Selim  for 
the  brute  is  untamed.  No  one  but  Paul  can  touch  him 
and  he  had  to  conquer  him  by  sheer  strength.  Take 
him  away,  Paul;  mount  him  yourself  and  give  him  a 
gallop.  Ride  to  the  post-office  for  my  mail.  Joe,  fetch 
out  Prince  for  Mr.  Lavasser,”  called  the  master. 

Glad  to  get  away,  I did  not  wait  for  remonstrance  or 
protest  from  the  discomfited  gentleman,  but  mounted 
and  turned  to  go,  when  the  young  mistress,  who  had 
been  sitting  quietly  on  Dido  a few  paces  away,  a fright- 
ened looker-on,  called  me  with  a tender,  little  ery. 

“Oh,  Paul!  your  arm  is  bleeding.  Let  me  see;  I 
do  hope  it  is  not  hurt?” 

“No,  miss,  only  a scratch.  It  doesn’t  matter,”  I an- 
swered, sweeping  by. 

Dido  made  an  effort  to  follow,  but  after  a little 
struggle  consented  to  wait  for  the  more  sober  paced 
Prince.  Giving  rein  to  Selim  I was  soon  out  of  sight,  lov- 
ingly patting  his  flowing  mane,  and  soothingly  thanking 
him  for  his  true-hearted  loyalty  to  me.  I almost  be- 
lieve now  that  the  noble  fellow  understood  me. 

That  same  afternoon  the  young  Master  Victor  and 
his  wife  came  to  welcome  the  couple  home  from  the 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE.  175 

■wedding  journey,  and  in  the  evening  a fox-hunt  was 
arranged  for  the  morning. 

‘ ‘ The  foxes  are  thick  as  the  leaves  on  the  ground,  and 
the  hounds  are  as  keen  as  briers,  ’ ’ said  the  young  mas- 
ter in  the  enthusiasm  of  anticipation. 

There  was  nothing  like  a fox-hunt  to  stir  the  blood  of 
a young  southern  planter,  and  Mr.  Lavasser  was  as 
keen  for  the  chase  as  his  brother-in-law. 

“Have  us  up  at  4 o’clock,  Joe.  We  must  be  at  Gat- 
lin’s before  day-break,”  was  the  last  order  that  night. 

And  at  4 o’clock,  chill,  crisp  winter  morning  as  it 
was,  they  were  up,  all  three  gentlemen,  with  as  many 
negroes  to  attend  them  and  with  Sampson  to  manage 
the  hounds,  they  were  off. 

“Here,  you  Buck,”  said  Mr.  Lavasser,  as  I held 'his 
stirrup  for  him  to  mount.  “You  are  the  fellow  who 
makes  the  fires  for  your  mistress  ? ’ ’ 

“Yes,  sir.” 

“Then,  your  Miss  Virginia  says  for  you  to  make  her 
a rousing  fire  right  away.  I left  her  shivering  in  the 
cold.  Go  up  at  once  and  make  a fire.” 

And  with  a brave  wind  of  his  horn  he  was  off. 

With  a light,  bounding  heart  and  nerve  athrill  with 
gladness  I ran  to  the  wood  shed  and  gathering  a great 
load  of  hickory  wood  on  my  shoulder — I verily  believe 
I could  have  carried  a cord — I almost  flew  up  to  her 
room.  I found  her  door  as  the  indifferent  young  hus- 
band had  left  it — slightly  ajar,  with  the  chilly  morning 
air  sweeping  in. 

As  steadily  as  I could  I piled  on  the  wood  and  kindled 
the  blaze,  and  then  arose  and  looked  around  with  a 
yearning  hesitation.  Had  I misinterpreted  the  meaning 
of  that  summons?  For  a moment  I stood  irresolute, 
and  receiving  no  encouraging  notice,  my  heart  failed  me 
altogether,  and  I slowly  turned  to  the  door.  I had 
placed  my  hand  on  the  knob,  when  she  softly  called, 
and  with  a glad  uplifting  of  heart  I looked.  She  had 
drawn  back  the  curtains  and  rosy,  blushing,  sweet  as 
ever  she  was  resting  her  body  on  her  elbow.  After  an 


176 


THE  STOKY  OP  A SLAVE. 


interrogation  or  two  concerning  her  recently-departed 
liege,  she  said,  noticing  my  diffident  attitude. 

“Ah  Paul,  you  think  I have  ceased  to  love  you?” 

“It  would  have  been  better,  perhaps,  if  you  had,”  I 
answered,  sadly. 

“Yes,  maybe  it  would,  and  I did  try — honestly  try — 
but  I could  not.  Is  the  heart  of  a woman  a sponge  that 
it  can  be  squeezed  dry  at  will?  And  then  today,  Paul, 
when  you  stood  so  brave  again,  so  strong  and  so  grand, 
and  he — Eugene — was  so  cruel,  so  unjust  and  withal  so 
weak  and  childish,  my  heart  felt  that  it  was  burning, 
and  it  was  all  that  it  could  do  to  keep  from  crying  out 
in  vindication  of  its  darling  and  scorn  for  its  tyrant. 
Oh,  darling,  I do  love  you  still,  and  dearer  than  ever.” 

^ M 

W W W W 

Oh,  was  ever  there  so  gracious  a mistress  before  in 
all  the  world,  or  ever  such  a doit  of  a husband  to  quit 
the  downy  softness  of  such  a bosom  and  the  fragrant 
warmth  of  such  arms  for  a gallop  in  the  frosty  air 
through  brambles  and  briers,  over  stones  and  fences? 
Ah,  well,  chacon  a son  gout,  as  the  old  French  are  al- 
ways saying,  he  enjoyed  the  chase,  while  I blessed  him 
for  his  room. 

The  hunt  was  so  successful  and  entrancingly  de- 
lightful that  it  was  repeated  the  next  morning  and  then 
the  next,  the  careless  husband  leaving  the  room  behind 
chilled  with  the  draughts  of  morning  air,  and  I obe- 
diently ready  to  warm  it  into  a rousing  glow  again. 

Until  their  house  in  the  city  could  be  finished,  the 
young  mistress  would  keep  her  home  at  Rosemere.  In 
addition  to  their  large  planting  interests,  the  Lavassers 
were  at  the  head  of  one  of  the  most  extensive  cotton 
commission  and  brokerage  houses  in  the  South.  Being 
an  active  member  of  the  firm — and  to  do  the  gentleman 
justice,  a very  efficient  one— young  Lavasser,  now  that 
the  tasteless  honeymoon  was  over,  would  be  expected 
to  resume  his  place  in  the  office.  As  he  kept  his  negro 
mistress  in  the  city,  and  the  young  wife  could  so  satis- 
factorily abide  at  home  with  her  mother,  this  imposed 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


177 


«•  serious  hardship  upon  him,  and  accordingly  it  was 
arranged  that  he  could  spend  the  Sundays  at  home, 
coming  up  on  the  boat  every  Saturday  evening  and 
returning  the  next  Monday  morning,  and  the  remainder 
©f  his  time  he  could  give  to  his  office. 

And  thus  the  broken  link  in  the  chain  that  bound  our 
lives  together  was  reunited  and  we  went  on  again  lov- 
ing and  being  loved,  as  fondly  and  as  sweetly  as  ever. 
There  was  nothing  to  disturb  the  perfection  of  our 
paradise  but  the  hebdomadal  visits  of  the  unloved  and 
unloving  husband.  And  these  were  more  distasteful 
to  her,  my  sweet  mistress,  than  they  were  provocative 
of  jealousy  in  me.  When  she  conceded  so  much  to  me 
I could  not  begrudge  the  little  she  so  reluctantly  doled 
out  to  him. 

The  old  delightful  rides  were  resumed,  and  as  soon 
as  the  bloom  of  spring  brought  the  wild  roses  and  the 
honeysuckles  and  the  daisies  came  again,  we  sought 
once  more  our  pristine  bower — the  festooned  grot.  We 
had  named  it  the  Bridal  Bower — and  bedecking  the 
grassy  couch  again  with  flowers,  lulled  by  the  drowsy 
hum  of  bees  and  the  twitter  of  birds,  I would  soothe 
my  darling  to  sleep,  while  with  a swelling  pride  of 
masterful  ownership  I would  sit  by  keeping  watch  and 
ward  over  her  in  her  slumbers,  bewailing  only  the  too, 
too  rapid  flight  of  the  golden  moments. 

But  the  softest  and  sweetest  of  springs  must  melt 
at  last  into  sultry  summer,  and  ours  was  no  excep- 
tion to  the  fiat.  With  the  closing  of  the  cotton  season 
in  May  there  was  no  longer  need  or  excuse  for  the 
young  husband’s  stay  in  the  city,  and  turning  the 
key  of  his  bagnio  upon  his  dusky  concubine,  he  came 
home  to  prepare  for  the  fashionable  summer  season 
at  seaside  or  mountain  resort. 

They  stayed  a week,  and  then,  like  summer  birds 
taking  their  flight,  they  went  away  to  spend  the  early 
season  in  the  Virginia  mountains. 

In  tie  fall,  when  they  came  back,  it  was  to  go  to 


178 


THE  STOEY  OF  A SLAVE. 


their  own  home — a pleasant  mansion,  builded  especial- 
ly for  them  in  the  city. 

It  was  not  until  the  next  January  that  I saw  her 
again,  and  then  she  came  home  to  her  mother  to  give 
birth  to  her  child.  Her  husband  came  with  her,  but 
went  back  the  next  day  to  his  office.  It  was  in  the 
midst  of  the  cotton  season,  and  he  thought  more  of 
his  cotton  bales  than  he  did  of  his  wife  or  prospective 
heir. 

It  was  not  until  he  was  gone  that  she  called  me  into 
her  presence,  sacred  now — holy  to  me. 

“Paul,”  she  said,  in  the  same  sweet,  musical  voice 
of  hers,  “you  will  think  me  weak,  I know,  but  I can- 
not help  it.  I have  no  one  else  in  all  the  world  to 
whom  I can  confide  my  troubles,  my  doubts  and  fears 
and  I have  to  bring  them  to  you.” 

“Ah!  And  I would  to  God  I could  take  them  all 
from  you  and  make  them  my  own,”  I answered  in 
solemn  earnestness. 

“Yes,  I believe  you,  Paul;  only  you  cannot  and  I 
have  to  bear  them  myself — but  your  sympathy  helps 
me.  Now,  I will  tell  you.  As  you  know,  I am  soon 
to  become  a mother.  It  may  be  tomorrow,  or  may  be 
not  for  a week.  But,  Paul,  I — I really  do  not  know 
whether — whether  Eugene,  my  husband,  or  you  is  the 
father.  Oh,  isn’t  it  horrible— such  a thought — such 
suspense?”  and  the  tears  came  to  her  eyes  as  she 
spoke.  “And  worse  than  all,  Paul,  I— I can  hardly 
tell  whose  I most  wish  it  to  be.” 

“Oh,  not  mine — for  your  sake  and  for  the  sake  of 
the  innocent  child,  not  mine ! ” I interrupted,  awed  by 
the  awfulness  of  the  thought. 

“Ah,  it  is  of  it,  my  child,  I am  thinking.  If  it  could 
inherit  something  of  your  truth,  Paul,  something  of 
your  strength  and  mind,  and  courage,  of  your  good- 
ness of  heart  and  nobleness  of  character,  I would  be 
glad  it  was  yours.” 

“Oh,  but  with  these  it  would  have  to  inherit  the 
taint  of  my  race — the  dark  stain  of  my  blood.” 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


179 


“Yes,  I have  thought  of  that,  too.  But  the  taint  is 
not  enervating,  nor  debasing.  Alexander  Dumas 
had  it." 

"But,  my  dear  mistress,"  I hastily  interrupted, 
"think  of  the  shame,  the  reproach.  No — no ! God  for- 
bid the  shame  of  such  an  exposure,"  I cried. 

"There  need  be  no  exposure.  No  one  but  you  and 
I and  our  God  need  to  ever  know,"  she  answered 
bravely. 

"But  suppose  it  should  be  black,  that  the  blood  of 
my  mother  should  be  strongest  in  its  veins  and  darkeif 
its  skin?" 

"I  had  thought  of  that,  and  that  is  all  that  troubles 
me.  It  is  for  this  I came  to  consult  you.  You,  who 
are  so  much  stronger  and  wiser  than  I,  must  think 
and  tell  me,”  she  said  with  a sweet  trust  in  my  judg- 
ment and  loyal  faith. 

"I  can  suggest  but  one  plan,"  I said,  after  a mo- 
ment’s sober  reflection. 

"And  what  is  that?"  eagerly. 

"To  have  no  one  else  with  you,  but  your  mother 
and  mine,  and  should  it  be  so,  let  them  decide." 

"But  it  would  kill  my  mother." 

"No,  not  kill  her.  It  would  shock  and  distress  her, 
but  she  would  still  have  strength  to  bear  it,  and 
thoughts  to  conceal  it.  The  child  could  be  taken 
away  and  cared  for  by  my  mother  and  no  one  should 
ever  know." 

"And  I — oh,  I could  not  give  up  my  baby,  for  I 
love  it,  Paul,  already,  more  dearly  than  my  own  life,  ’ ’ 
she  cried. 

"No,  you  would  not  have  to  give  it  up — you  could 
still  watch  over  it,  and  could  devise  to  see  it." 

"You  think  this  could  be  done?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it." 

"And  you.  Oh,  Paul,  they  would  kill  you.  They  may 
tear  my  tongue  out  before  I would  tell  on  you.” 

"No  danger  for  me.  To  punish  me  might  possibly 


180 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


expose  the  secret.  Oh,  my  mistress,  you  must  not  fear 
for  me,  whatever  be  the  issue!” 

“Are  you  sure  this  is  best,  Paul?” 

“I  am  sure.” 

“Then  you  must  go  at  once  for  your  mother.  My 
time  is  almost  up.  I will  go  now  and  tell  mamma. 
But,  Paul,  you  will  not  tell  your  own  mother?” 

“Oh,  no,  no!  Not  even  if  the  worst  should  come, 
she  shall  not  know,”  I answered,  as  she  slowly  made 
her  way  into  her  mother’s  room. 

A few  moments  after  I was  summoned  to  the  mis- 
tress’ presence. 

“Paul,  you  must  get  the  wagonette  at  once  and 
drive  to  Cossetot  and  fetch  Tsa.  Your  Miss  Virginia 
is  going  to  be  confined,  and  she  has  taken  it  into  her 
silly  head  that  no  one  but  Tsa  shall  be  with  her.  Of 
course,  Tsa  is  as  safe  as  any  doctor,  and  we  will  have 
to  humor  her.  Go,  now,  Paul,  as  quickly  as  you  can, 
and  get  back  tonight.  You  can  get  fresh  mules  at 
the  plantation,  and  don’t  spare  them.  We  can’t  tell 
at  what. moment  something  may  happen.” 

As  might  be  supposed,  I lost  no  time  in  hurrying 
away,  nor  in  returning,  and  though  it  was  nine  o ’clock 
in  the  morning  when  I started,  it  was  not  yet  sundown 
when  I dove  back  into  the  yard  at  Rosemere.  And  it 
was  well  that  I hurried,  for  that  night  at  1 :30  a.  m.,  her 
baby  was  delivered. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


THE  CHASTENING  HOD. 


Had  I been  drawing  on  the  imaginative  resources 
of  the  writers  of  romantic  fiction — -and  therefore 
naturally  straining  for  dramatic  effects,  instead  of 
chronicling  the  somewhat  romantic  happenings  of  my 
life  as  a slave,  I should  have  closed  with  the  preced- 
ing chapter,  leaving  the  reader  to  wonder  which  the 
baby  was — blue  blood  or  mongrel,  magnolia-white  or 
mahogany-brown,  but  such  is  not  my  purpose.  I never 
could  tolerate  a mise  en  scene  and  to  attempt  one  my- 
self would  be  to  court  failure, 

“Ah,  darling,  I have  a great  mind  to  switch  you — 
you  ungrateful  child,  you!”  playfully  exclaimed  the 
proud  grandmother,  as  she  placed  the  lusty  little 
stranger  in  the  arms  of  its  mother. 

“Why,  mamma?”  with  a pretty  wonder  in  the 
languid  eyes. 

“For  not  giving  me  a full-blooded  Choteaux.  Your 
boy  is  all  Lavasser — even  to  the  blue  eyes ; while,  you 
know,  I wanted  it  to  be  all  Choteaux,  ’ 7 and  there  was 
really  a little  pique  in  the  mistress’  tone,  playfully 
as  she  tried  to  hide  it. 

I wondered  if  she  would  have  so  desperately  cared 
had  she  known  how  alarmingly  near  the  little  fellow 
had  come  of  being  at  least  six-eighths  Choteaux — 
even  wfith  her  dislike  for  her  son-in-law,  for  Eugene 
Lavasser  was  a disappointment  and  consequent  abomi- 
nation to  her. 

I was  still  nothing  but  a negro  slave  to  the  house- 
hold, and  as  such  had  been  called  in  the  first  moment 
after  the  delicate  crisis  was  passed  to  help  with  mj 

181 


182 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


strong  arms  and  ready  hands  where  service  might  be 
needed. 

“Oh,  it  is  all  mine,  mother — my  new-born  love,  my 
joy,  my  precious,  precious  babe.  Oh,  my  God,  I do 
thank  Thee,”  cooingly  cried  the  young  mother,  hug- 
ging the  child  to  her  bosom  and  baptizing  its  head 
with  a mother's  tears  and  kisses  of  gratitude  and 
love. 

She  was  a magnificent  woman,  never  having  known 
a day  of  real  sickness  in  ail  her  life,  and  from  her 
oonfinement  she  rallied  almost  in  a day,  and  before  the 
week  was  ended  she  was  able  not  only  to  walk  about 
her  room,  but  to  go  down  stairs. 

It  was  one  day  the  next  week,  when  I went  in  to 
heap  up  the  fire,  that  I found  her  sitting  alone  with 
her  babe  in  her  arms. 

“Paul,  dear,  good  Paul,”  she  said,  calling  to  me  as 
I turned  to  go,  “stay  a little  while — I wish  to  talk, 
and  besides,  you  haven't  seen  my  baby  yet.  Here,  look 
at  it,  Paul,  and  kiss  it.” 

For  a second  or  two  I hesitated — it  seemed  such  a 
hard  thing  to  ask — to  have  her,  who  had  been  so  much 
to  me,  my  wife  in  soul,  as  sacredly  my  own  as  any 
human  vows  could  have  made  her,  to  have  her  plaee 
his  child — the  child  of  my  rival — in  my  arms,  and  ask 
me  to  kiss  it. 

For  a moment  only  I hesitated  and  then,  as  I saw 
the  tears  welling  up  in  her  eyes,  I pressed  the  babo 
to  my  heart  and  for  her  sweet  sake,  I tenderly 
kissed  it.  . 

“Thank  you,  Paul,  you  are  very  good— oh,  so  good, 
and  I know  that  God  will  bless  you  for  your  good- 
ness. I know,  Paul,  what  a bitter  thing  it  was  I asked 
you  to  do— to  kiss  his  child — but  I knew  the  strength 
of  your  goodness.  And,  now,  I have  something  to 
tell  you.  I should  have  told  you  before,  but  I know 
you  will  not  doubt  me  now.  When  I was  in  mj 
dilemma  of  doubt  and  perplexity  about  my  unborn 
babe,  and  about  you  and  Eugene,  and  about  my  dirty 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


183 


to  you  all,  X made  a vow,  a sacred  vow  to  God,  that 
to  which  one  of  you,  you  or  Eugene,  He  had  given 
my  babe,  to  him,  its  father,  I would  thenceforth  give 
a wife’s  undivided  duty.  I cannot  live  this  bigamous 
life  always.  I cannot  live  it  any  longer.  Had  the  babe 
been  yours,  Paul,  X should  have  clung  to  you  always. 
God,  it  seems,  has  willed  it  otherwise,  and  God  know- 
eth  best;  and,  now,  I must  ask  you,  Paul,  to  help  me 
pmt  you  away— now  and  forever — and  to  help  me  to 
clhag  to  my  husband — to  the  father  of  my  child.  For 
my  babe’s  sake  I must  be  true  to  the  father.  Had 
yon  been  the  father,  for  its  sake,  still,  I should  have 
been  equally  true  to  you.  Do  you  understand,  Paul?” 

“Oh  yes,  I understand,”  I answered  huskily. 

“And  you  will  not  think  ill  of  me,  Paul?” 

“Think  ill  of  you?  Ah,  no.  May  God  bless  you 
for  your  resolution.  You  have  decided  rightly,  and  I 
should  be  unworthy  of  your — your  esteem — your 
slightest  regard,  X should  be  worse  than  a viper,  should 
I attempt  to  further  cross  your  path,  or  ever  seek  t© 
move  you  from  your  duty,”  I said,  solemnly  and  with 
a perfect  sincerity,  born  of  an  almost  reverential  awe 
for  the  look  which  seemed  to  glorify  the  sweet  face 
of  the  young  mother. 

“You  have  made  me  so  happy,  Paul;  and,  now,  all 
is  over  between  us — all,  but  my  gratitude  to  you,  my 
undying  gratitude  for  your  great  goodness,”  she  said. 

“I  shall  always  be  ready  to  serve  you  and  yours 
with  my  life,”  I answered,  again  softly  kissing  the 
babe,  as  it  unconsciously  smiled  at  me,  and  then  X 
quietly  went  out  from  her  presence,  feeling  that  a 
wild,  riotous,  passionate  rapture  had  gone  out  of  my 
heart  forever,  and  that  a peace,  nearly  akin  to  glad- 
ness, had  taken  its  place. 

The  next  month  she  went  home.  The  day  before  she 
went,  she  asked  the  master  and  mistress  to  come  te 
bea*  in  the  parlor,  and  then  calling  me,  she  said: 

“Papa,  and  you,  mamma,  come  into  the  gallery.  I 
wish  to  show  you  something.  Something  I wonder 


184 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


that  you,  yourselves,  have  not  seen  long  ago.  Come 
on,  Paul,  I want  you,  too.” 

Half  wondering  what  was  to  come,  I followed. 

“Now,  Paul,  stand  there,  in  that  light — so,”  plac- 
ing me  in  position  and  assisting  my  pose.  “Now,  papa 
— now,  mamma, — look  on  this  picture,”  pointing  t©  my 
father’s  portrait,  “and  then  at  Paul,  here.” 

“Well?”  questioned  my  master,  in  a mystified 
puzzle. 

“Don’t  you  see  the  resemblance  between  the  two — 
my  uncle,  Jules,  and  his  son,  Paul?” 

“My  God,  it  is  so!”  cried  the  master  with  a start, 
as  the  truth  for  the  first  time  flashed  upon  his  mmd, 
“Pauline,  do  you  see  it?” 

“Yes,  I see  it,  and  it  is  so.  I wonder  I hada’t 
noticed  it  before.  And  that  accounts  for  the  voice.” 

“Yes,  and  the  magnificent  strength.  I should  have 
known  that  no  one  but  a Choteaux  could  have  lifted 
that  safe.  Egad,  Paul,  I believe  I am  glad  of  it!” 

“And  it  upsets  your  Pythagorian  theory  of  the 
transmigration  of  the  soul,  ha — ha,”  laughed  the  mis- 
tress. 

“And  Marie’s  theory  of  the  African  magi  and  the 
odic  principle,”  retorted  the  master.  “I  knew  it  was 
all  tomfoolery.” 

“Yes,  I should  have  known  that  no  other  but  the 
hand  of  a Choteaux  could  have  rubbed  so  softly — could 
have  thrilled  so  greatly.  But,  Virginia,  darling,  how 
in  the  world  did  you  find  it  out?” 

“By  the  picture,”  she  answered.  “But,  now  papa, 
we  must  do  something  for  Paul.  He  is,  as  you  soy 
and  as  you  see,  a Choteaux;  and  we  must  give  him  a 
chance.” 

“Yes,  yes— to  be  sure.  But,  Paul,  did  you  kww 
this?”  turning  to  me. 

“Yes,  sir;  I have  known  it  all  the  while.” 

“And  it  never  gave  you  the  big-head?”  * 

“It  made  me  think  myself  above  a common  nogi *o, 
but  I never  could  forget  that  I was  not  a white  mm.” 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


185 


“Good!  you  are  a man  of  more  than  common  sense. 
Now,  what  is  it  we  can  do  for  you!” 

“I  have  nothing  to  ask.” 

“Ah,  then  you  must  be  a fool.  What  is  it,  Jenny, 
you  want  me  to  do  for  him?” 

“Give  him  his  freedom  and  set  him  up  in  life, ’ 9 she 
answered  promptly  and  practically. 

“No,  I can’t  do  that.  The  law  will  not  allow  me 
to  emancipate  him.  But  I tell  you  what  I can  do, 
Paul.  I can  take  you  up  North  and  free  you  there. 
Take  you  to  Boston  among  the  Freedmen  shriekers 
and  let  them  steal  you.  Egad,  that’s  the  trick!  They 
will  make  a hero  of  you,  and  the  women  will  all  go 
crazy  over  you.  You  can  sell  your  wool  for  a dollar 
a lock.  You  must  play  the  martyr,  Paul,  the  poor 
down-trodden  brute.  What  a pity  you  have  been  such 
a good  fellow  and  escaped  the  cowhide?  A few  scars 
on  your  back  would  come  in  so  nicely — we  must  get 
a scarificator  and  provide  a few,  and  you  must  im- 
provise a story,  the  . old,  old  story — horrible  to  relate 
and  too  bad  to  tell — of  nothing  to  eat  but  cotton 
seeds,  of  feeding  nigger  babies  to  blood-hounds,  et 
cetera,  et  cetera.  Ah,  my  boy,  your  fortune  is  made. 
Pauline,  we  will  start  right  away.  What  say  you, 
Paul?  I am  in  earnest.  We  will  go  to  Boston  and  I 
will  settle  you  there  with  three  thousand  dollars.  Will 
that  do,  Jenny?” 

“Oh,  yes;  wTith  such  a start,  I am  sure,  that  Paul 
can  make  his  way  to  fortune,  and  besides,  we  can 
send  him  more  as  he  needs  it,”  said  the  generous- 
hearted  woman. 

“Yes,  of  course.  What  say  you,  Pauline;  would 
you  like  a little  trip  yourself  and  go  with  us?” 

“Oh,  no,  not  now.  It’s  too  cold  up  there.  But  take 
Paul  and  set  him  up  in  life.  It  is  right  that  we  should 
do  something  for  him,”  readily  acquiesced  the  mis- 
tress. 

“Well,  what  say  you,  Paul?  How  does  that  suit 
you?”  asked  the  master,  turning  again  to  me. 


186 


THE  STOEY  OF  A SLAVE. 


“You  are  very  good — and  I do  thank  you  for  your 
kindness  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  but  I do  not 
care  to  go.  I have  no  wish  for  freedom.  I could 
scarcely  do  more  for  myself  anywhere  than  I have  done 
and  can  do  here,  and  I wish  for  nothing  better  than  to 
live  with  you  and  my  kind  mistress  as  long  as  you 
two  may  live.  Mistress,  may  I stay?”  I asked,  turn- 
ing to  her. 

“Yes,  Paul,  if  you  will;  for  I do  not  see  how  in  the 
world  I could  possibly  do  without  you.  Only,  you 
are  to  have  a new  room;  and  are  to  wait  upon  no  one 
else  in  the  world  but  me,”  she  answered. 

And  so  it  was  decided,  and  with  the  exception  of 
a new  and  better  appointed  room,  a carte  blanche  to 
the  library,  and  immunity  from  the  assumptions  of 
Joe,  my  life  went  on  the  same  as  before. 

The  next  morning  the  young  mistress,  Virginia,  went 
away.  I stood  at  the  carriage  with  the  others  to  bid 
her  good-bye.  Mine  was  the  last  leave-taking  and  she 
gave  me  her  hand. 

“Good-bye,  Paul;  dear,  good  Paul — may  the  good 
God  bless  you,”  she  said,  and  there  were  sobs  in  her 
voice  as  well  as  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  spoke. 

And  this  was  our  parting. 

Everything  was  lonely  after  she  went,  as  my  life  has 
been  lonely  ever  since.  But  it  was  not  like  the  old 
passionate,  rebellious,  despairing  loneliness  that  embit- 
tered as  it  filled  my  heart  before,  but  rather  that  chas- 
tened sorrow  one  feels  when  mourning  the  saintly  dead. 

The  next  year  the  war  came  on  with  its  disastrous 
consequences  following  in  rapid  succession. 

To  those  who  do  not  understand  the  subject  in  its 
correct  as  well  as  its  generally  accepted  relations  and 
bearings,  it  may  be  a matter  of  surprise  to  know  that 
my  sympathies,  as  were  the  sympathies  of  most  of  my 
race,  were  all  with  our  people,  and  by  our  people  I 
I mean  the  people  of  the  South.  It  is  true  that  out  of 
the  struggle  came  the  emancipation  of  the  slaves,  but 
I have  ever  regarded  that  as  a sequence  rather  than  a 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


187 


cause.  Had  it  not  come  then,  it  must  have  come  late* 
through  the' pacific  measures  suggested  by  the  best  in- 
terests of  the  nation.  It  was  not  to  free  the  negr** 
that  the  war  against  the  Southern  States  was  prose* 
cuted,  and  when  at  last,  driven  to  a desperate  extrem- 
ity the  proclamation  was  issued,  who  will  deny  that  th* 
great  martyr,  whose  memory  we  now  justly  reverence 
and  respect,  did  not  reckon  on  the  strength  which  it 
would  bring  the  cause  of  the  Union  as  a war  expedient 
rather  than  its  justice  to  the  slaves?  It  was  a war 
measure,  simply  that  and  nothing  more.  Had  there 
been  no  secession  there  would  have  been  on  emancipa- 
tion at  that  time. 

The  war  came  and  brought  sorrow  and  death  and  dis- 
aster to  the  Choteaux,  as  it  did  to  thousands  of  other 
Southern  homes.  The  eldest  son,  Louis,  was  killed  at 
Bull  Bun.  The  youngest,  Victor,  was  left  cold  and 
stiff  on  the  bloody  field  of  Perryville,  while  the  son- 
in-law,  Eugene  Lavasser,  was  brought  home  from 
Ghickamauga,  blind,  maimed  and  hopelessly  demented 
from  a ballet  hole  through  his  temple. 

And  then  it  was  that  Virginia  Choteaux  showed  the 
true  nobility,  the  grandeur  and  sublimity  of  her  char- 
acter, by  the  loving,  tender,  patient  and  thankless  care 
she  bestowed  upon  that  poor  wreck  of  a husband.  It  was 
a beautiful  thing  to  see  the  devotion  she  showed  him, 
waiting  upon  him — singing,  reading,  laughing  for  him, 
giving  all  her  life  to  his  peevish  and  petulant  whims. 

And  then  later  on,  when  all  the  horrors  of  war  came 
down  upon  their  home,  destroying  everything  in  its 
path  as  completely  as  a cyclone  marks  its  track,  it  was 
pitiful  to  see  her,  that  tenderly-reared  woman,  driven 
from  the  burning  mansion,  taking  shelter  in  one  of 
the  negro  cabins,  performing  for  him,  with  her  own, 
tender  hands,  the  most  menial  of  services — cooking, 
sewing,  washing,  in  fact,  doing  everything  that  a slave 
might  be  expected  to  do,  and  all  the  while  going  about 
with  that  same  sweet  smile  glorifying  her  face  and 
making  sunshine  for  all. 


183 


THE  STORY  OP  A SLAVE. 


All,  how  glad  was  I that  I could  help  her  in  this 
the  dark  night  of  her  trouble  ? How  happy  that  I had 
not  accepted  my  master’s  offer  of  freedom,  but  had 
remained  to  share  the  family  misfortune? 

The  old  master  had  died  the  second  year  of  the  war. 
He  too  was  in  service,  commanding  a regiment,  and 
died  in  a hospital  away  from  home.  The  mistress 
never  recovered  from  the  blow  and  followed  him  a 
short  month  afterwards.  It  was  a sorrow  to  the  sweet 
heart  of  the  daughter  to  give  them  up,  but  I am  sure 
it  was  a blessing  that  they  went  as  they  did,  before 
the  coming  of  such  bitter  trials  and  troubles  and  de- 
privations. 

But  even  misery,  slowly  as  it  drags  its  weary  lengths 
along,  must  have  its  end  at  last,  and  after  many 
desolate  months  the  war  was  ended,  the  work  of  de- 
struction done,  and  the  almost  hopeless  task  of  recon- 
struction was  commenced.  Gathering  up  the  scattered 
fragments  of  their  property— for  poor  Lavasser  was 
a physical  and  mental  wreck,  entirely  incapacitated 
for  business,  I set  to  work  to  rehabilitate  the  de- 
vastated plantations,  and  after  nearly  two  years  of 
hard  work  and  thoughtful  management,  I succeeded 
in  lifting  her  and  her  dependent  ones  out  of  the  slavish 
poverty  in  which  she  had  so  patiently  trudged  into 
comparative  wealth  and  luxury  again. 

And  then  knowing  I could  safely  depend  upon  her 
own  busines  skill  and  excellent  judgment  I relegated 
my  self-assumed  trust  back  to  her,  and  came  away 
where  I could  see  her  no  more. 

She  may  have  wondered — and  I am  sure  she  did — 
what  became  of  me ; for  changing  my  name,  I dropped 
as  completely  out  of  her  life  and  of  her  ken  as  if  I 
had  been  spirited  away  into  another  world  by  the 
mysterious  hand  of  ironical  fate. 

True,  my  life  since  that  day  has  not  been  without 
incident,  but  its  vicissitudes,  its  upward  struggles,  and 
its  successes  cannot  affect  in  any  degree  the  story  of 
my  bondage.  . 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


189 


Last  week  I read  the  announcement  of  her  death. 
It  tame  to  me  in  the  home  paper — for  I still  call  the 
old  place  home — and  my  heart  received  a blow  when 
I read  it.  It  was  a tender  tribute  to  a good  woman,  and 
read  as  follows: 

“Died,  at  her  home  near  the  city,  on  the  24th  in- 
stant, Mrs.  Virginia  Choteaux  Lavasser,  relict  of  the 
late  Col.  Eugene  Lavasser,  and  daughter  of  the  la- 
mented Col.  Gustave  Choteaux.  Mrs.  Lavasser  was  a 
woman  of  rare  Christian  virtues,  rich  in  all  the  graces 
of  a true  and  lovely  womanhood,  a tender,  devoted 
wife,  a loving  mother,  a generous  giver  to  the  needy, 
and  a sympathetic  friend  and  neighbor.  She  filled  all 
the  duties  of  life  with  examplary  grace  and  sweetness. 
Her  late  husband,  Col.  Eugene  Lavasser,  had  been  a 
hopeless,  helpless  invalid  and  suffered  ever  since  he 
was  so  terribly  wounded  at  the  battle  of  Chickamauga, 
and  had  only  preceded  her  to  rest  a few  weeks.  A son 
and  daughter  survive  her,  Paul  Lavasser,  Esq.,  our 

rising  fellow  citizen,  and  Julia  Lavasser  B , of 

Mobile,  to  whom  are  intrusted  as  a priceless  legacy  the 
perpetuation  of  her  virtues  and  the  sacredness  of  her 
memory.” 

My  eyes  grew  dim  as  I read  and  the  world  seemed 
strangely  dark,  and  the  darkness  is  hanging  heavily 

over  me  still. 


RETROSPECTION 


It  is  now  more  than  thirty  years  ago,  counted  by 
the  lapse  of  days  it  seems  but  a little  while,  scarcely 
a decade ; but  measured  by  events,  the  mutations  and 
astounding  changes  that  have  come  in  such  marvelous 
rapidity,  it  may  be  counted  a century. 

I was  young  then,  in  the  full  vigor  of  lusty  manhood. 
I am  really  not  so  old  now,  and  still  straight,  and 
strong  and  active,  but  not  strong  as  I was  then.  Not 
so  full  of  the  bounding,  melting,  passionate  vitality  of 
life,  not  so  bouyant  with  animal  vivre.  I feel  the  tem- 
pering hands  of  years. 

I was  a slave  then,  a human  chattel,  but  one  degree 
above  a horse,  to  be  bought  and  sold,  beaten  and  driven 
at  the  caprice  of  a master  or  the  still  more  eccentric 
whim  of  a mistress.  I am  a freeman  now,  clad  in  the 
proudest  political  vesture  that  ever  clothed  a freeman, 
the  panoply  of  American  citizenship. 

But  it  is  not  for  this  that  I care.  Freedom  and  the 
franchise,  with  their  magnificent  political  possibilities, 
have  brought  no  pleasures  to  me.  Their  honors  I have 
worn  and  could  still  command,  but  they  are  hardly 
worth  the  wearing,  and  still  less  the  winning.  Where 
ignorance  and  prejudice,  and  superstition  are  the  step- 
ping-stones to  distinction,  it  is  no  great  merit  to  at- 
tain it. 

The  golden  days  of  my  life,  the  bright  joy  of  liv- 
ing, the  triumph  of  my  manhood,  the  heavenly  bliss  of 
loving,  came  to  me  as  a slave.  One  day,  even  the  most 
insipid  of  that  happy,  happy  epoch,  is  worth  more  to 
me-  than  all  the  years  I have  lived  since.  I would  not 

191 


192 


THE  STORY  OF  A SLAVE. 


exchange  its  bitterest  memories  for  all  the  honors  men 
could  pile  upon  me. 

It  is  not  a half  century  since,  and  all  these  changes 
have  come.  She  of  whom  I am  going  to  write  is  dead 
now.  Her  sins — if  sins  they  be — are  with  her  Saviour, 
and  her  secret  is  left  with  me.  No  human  being,  save 
us  two,  ever  knew  or  ever  suspected,  not  even  those 
nearest  to  her,  whom  she  has  left  behind. 

No  breath  of  scandal,  no  taint  of  shame,  no  shadow 
of  reproach  ever  clouded  the  cerulean  purity  of  her 
name.  With  impunity  to  her  memory,  I could  mount 
the  house  top  and  proclaim  aloud  the  story  of  her 
heart ’s  hidden  secret ; for  no  one  would  believe  me,  and 
in  grateful  reverence  I bow  my  head  and  thank  my 
God  that  it  is  so.  Those  who  knew  her  and  loved  her, 
that  gentlest,  sweetest,  and  fairest  of  women,  can 
proudly  stand  before  the  world  and  defy  the  accusa- 
tion of  an  angel  from  the  foot  of  the  Great  Throne  it- 
self, because  in  their  hearts  and  in  the  eyes  of  all  men 
and  all  women,  she  was  pure  as  the  spotless  daughter  of 
Jeptha  was  pure. 

Nor  is  it  for  me,  who  loved  her  so  well,  to  defile  her 
memory.  Oh,  no!  Sooner  than  write  one  line  that 
would  identify  her,  I should  wish  my  wrist  to  rot  from 
its  socket.  But  there  is  no  danger.  Her  children,  now 
grown  and  married,  can  read  all  that  I write  and  never 
once  dream  that  it  is  of  their  gentle  mother  I write. 
Her  identity  and  her  secret  are  alone  with  me,  with 
me  and  my  God,  and  no  mortal  may  ever  know  of  whom 
it  is  I speak. 

But  why  write  at  all?  Why  not  let  it  rest  with  her 
in  the  silence  of  death  ? Why  not  still  the  aching  throb 
of  my  heart,  as  I have  hushed  it  all  these  years,  and 
go  down  to  my  grave  with  its  sweetest  idyl  unsung? 

Perhaps  I should ; only  I cannot.  My  heart  is  so  full 
of  her,  of  her  kindness,  her  beauty,  her  sweetness,  that 
it  w choking  for  utterance,  and  I must  needs  speak  or 
it  will  burst. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS-URBANA 


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